They Both Have a Type
by kraftykathy
Summary: The Watson's Marriage is in danger of ending before it had a chance to begin and John won't even try to work things out. Sherlock has done everything in his power to convince his friend. But maybe Molly Hooper can help. A night of copious amounts of food and alcohol just might be the key! Spoilers for Series 3. Set just before Christmas in His Last Vow.
1. Tea and Biscuits

_I don't own anything, of course. Apologies for spelling, grammatical or any other kinds of errors. Actually I do own something – mistakes are all mine! _

_Rated T for language._

_Trigger Warning for description of corpse. Not too gory though._

**Tea And Biscuits**

There are certain procedures that must be followed in particular fields of work. For example, if one works in the medical field, it is of great importance to follow procedures that promote a sterile environment. This is no less important for those in the medical practice whom rarely interact with the living. Professionals such as those whom work in the field of pathology. For those whom work in the hospital's morgue. For doctors like Molly Hooper.

But that was what Molly Hooper preferred. Not that she couldn't tolerate a mess. God knew she could in fact handle more than her fair share . She didn't avoid sights or smells that were offensive to most and she had never been the squeamish type. Today she demonstrated her resilience and capabilities in this area of her work - which was exemplary as usual - when faced with performing diagnostics on a corpse in a rather advanced state of decomposition. It was bad enough to make a couple of seasoned Met officers, who were the first to arrive at the crime scene, lose their respective lunches.

Molly had faced the corpse with her usual aplomb, her interest peaked if anything. It was a fascinating challenge to determine the cause of death with so many of the clues compromised by the natural process of deterioration. Of course working in such conditions meant she would have to suit up in the appropriate attire. Donning her sterile coveralls and visor, she had stood back to observe the body.

She made a quick visual assessment of skin discolouration, state of rigor and lividity. Bringing out her camera she snapped off one shot after another as evidence for the police report. Though the decay made the wounds less obvious to the untrained eye, she already thought she had a good idea of the cause of death; a single stab wound to the chest. On visual inspection of the right side of the victim's face, she also noted that there may be a cut in the flesh above the zygomatic bone.

That was when she heard the unmistakable whistle of the electric kettle in her office, which broke her fixation on the remains on the table before her.

She would need fortification to face a job of this size! In her office she quickly prepared a cup of tea while hastily chewing on a biscuit. The sugar boost would give her the energy to tackle this properly. She gulped down her tea rather artlessly before she was off to the sink for quick scrub and grabbing some sterile gloves, she turned to sprint back to the morgue in happy anticipation.

At this moment Mike Stamford popped in to retrieve a file from Molly Hooper, though he was loath to enter the room on this day. Doctor he may be, but the smell was so vile he planned to be out of there as swiftly as possible.

"I don't know how you can eat, Molly!" He had exclaimed, halfway between admiration and disgust.

"Sometimes a light snack settles the stomach." Molly offered by way of an explanation, though she hadn't indulged for that reason. She had little need for it. She was just fond of chocolate biscuits and lunch wasn't for two hours.

She put on her gloves, picked up her tray of instruments and faced the job before her.

Mike made a hasty retreat and was gone before she had snapped on the second glove.

Later, she made her determined way around the morgue, putting everything in order for the weekend. She liked tidying her work areas; lab, morgue and office, but today she put extra effort into the task. But despite the added scrubbing and disinfecting there was a strong scent of decayed flesh that lingered in the air.

In all honesty the ritual of cleaning her instruments at the end of a day and placing them in the autoclave, tossing soiled hospital linens into the hamper and giving the whole space a final inspection was quite soothing. She was sure to check off every area of importance on her mental check list, a tick marking the completion of each task. Well there was a satisfaction in the ritual that appeased her orderly nature. It put her world to rights and gave her a sense of control in her sometimes crazy life.

Though she was unlikely to admit this, the cause of most of the chaos in her life had a name. The name was Sherlock Holmes.

She had to admit that Sherlock did not take advantage of her quite as much since his dramatic return to the land of the living and a proper friendship had blossomed between the pathologist and the consulting detective. The evidence was in his behaviour. For example, he would now ask her before helping himself to whatever he wanted from her lab. He would request body parts needed for his experiments rather than demand them and he had all but dropped the false compliments to manipulate her to his will.

In turn she was able to speak to him without the stuttering or stammering, and she only occasionally put her foot in her mouth. She was quite proud of that accomplishment! And so everything had settled into a fairly pleasant routine when it came to their working relationship. Other than his occasional bouts of diva-like tantrums - unavoidable to totally eliminate those considering who he was - it was all quite pleasant. Well it had been pleasant. Until that day.

It was that day he had turned up in her lab; that horrible day John Watson had dragged his sorry arse from that drug den strung out on heroin. She had slapped him so hard her hand felt bruised for days after. And ever since, well things had felt rather more strained between them.

That was also the terrible day he was shot, the day she had cried silently by his bedside as he lay unconcious, connected to monitors that displayed his weak vital signs. She sat there regretting the harshness of her actions not because she thought he didn't deserve her anger, but that if he should die she would have to live with that memory as her very last interaction with the man that she had loved so desperately. And oh, she was just so pathetic because she still loved the infuriating man though she had tried to put all those thoughts out of her mind. It was never going to happen with Sherlock! Even now with the drug relapse well behind him and the recovery from the near death experience pretty near complete. It just wasn't his area.

But today was a good day and she felt that the rebuilding of their friendship had made some wonderful progress, for today he had made a very special request of her.

All that was left of her routine before she left St Bart's was closing the files on her desk top computer in her office and logging off for the weekend and then she was off to the ladies lockers to change into her street clothes. She did not always wear hospital scrubs, but working on bodies that were in such an advanced stage of decay left their scent in her clothing. And just try getting a cabbie that doesn't object to the smell of death invading the interior of his vehicle on a Friday night. Quite the impossible task Molly Hooper would say!

She had covered her hair with a cap in the hopes of keeping it from smelling like her work and that was the first thing she pulled off in the locker room. Well her hair was in a state, wasn't it? Her reflection showed the flattened and yet simultaneously frizzy chaos that was her hair and she rolled her eyes at it before grabbing an elastic band and a brush. She did her best to get her hair into a controlled bun and employed several pins to catch up the wisps that threatened to escape.

Before changing out of her scrubs she took a quick glance around the room. That was a new habit of hers, one that had started with Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead. He had come to her in this very locker room and she had felt so overjoyed to see him safely returned. And though she might have entertained some naughty fantasies involving Sherlock, the ladies locker room and a certain state of undress, the reality was that she was all too aware of his disinclination to partake in such scenarios. Furthermore she realized that stinking of death and frizzy hospital cap hair did not actually make her feel particularly sexy.

With the room being devoid of certain consulting detectives, Molly quickly discarded the scrubs and pulled on her red blouse with the tiny white polka dots and an overly large bow at the throat, and a tan pair of trousers that were about two sizes too big and held up by a white faux leather belt.

Now she slipped on her warm winter boots, very sensible with no heels as she was a bit prone to stumbling in them, a white jumper, the one with the little red cherries merrily scattered about it here and there and her warm winter coat (brown like her boots).

Now the quest could begin! And really, it fit well with Molly Hooper's normal schedule, the young woman who so loved her routines and rituals.

**Read and review for my undying gratitude! Thanks!**


	2. Girly Drinks and Peanuts

**I don't own anything but the mistakes. Hope they are not too distracting! I had fun looking up Girly drinks and found some recipes I want to try. The purple Martini doesn't sound too tasty to me, but I loved how purple it was! I also watched _The Kids in the Hall_ skit called _Girl Drink Drunk_ for preparation. It is on youtube. You should watch it!**

**Girly Drinks and Peanuts**

It was quite normal for her to stop for a glass of wine on her way home from the morgue, especially if it was the last shift of the week. The proximity of The Red Lion made it a popular pub for those employed at St Bart's whether they be doctor or porter. It was an enjoyable routine and Molly would often have a drink with a co-worker but sometimes it would be just her and a nice glass of wine. No matter! As long as she had her little comforts all was right in Molly Hooper's world.

Sometimes she would even see a familiar face from Scotland Yard. A few times she had found Greg Lestrade having a pint at the bar. He usually invited Molly to come sit with him and made her laugh while he whinged on about Sherlock being the biggest berk he had ever encountered (obviously his visits to The Red Lion coincided with visits to St Bart's regarding cases that required working with the consulting detective.) Of course Molly could tell that Lestrade secretly liked the man regardless to what he said. But she kept her mouth shut and let him vent away.

Evenings with Greg usually followed a predictable pattern. First there would be the complaints about Sherlock. If he had a second drink he would start to flirt with Molly, something she did not reciprocate. It's not that Greg was unattractive. On the contrary, he was handsome, and funny and always a gentleman. He was also married. Well, kind of, sort of married. Actually his marital status was in a constant state of flux. That led to the next stage of a night with Greg, and this happened only if they stayed long enough for him to get beyond the three drink mark. The rest of the night would then consist of the DI talking about his wife. It was so apparent that he was still in love with the woman despite her questionable views on fidelity. Molly always encouraged him to keep working on his marriage but secretly she thought the man deserved better.

And that really said everything that she new about love right there. Molly couldn't help noticing how that was so often the case. So many people deserved something more than what they got, but how often does love give that option? She had resigned herself to the idea that most people really don't have any control over whom they love. It's hardly a rational thing!

And speaking of marital messes, who did Molly see as she entered The Red Lion, sitting alone at a table, looking utterly miserable?

John Watson, that's who.

There he was sitting on his chair looking into his glass with his sad puppy dog eyes, exactly as Sherlock had said he would be that Friday evening. Well he didn't say anything about the sad puppy eyes, of course. Molly smiled at the thought.

John Watson was the reason she was here this evening and she started to make her way across the pub. She had a task this night and she felt ill equipped to carry it out, but she gathered her strength to tackle the job at hand. She must give it her best effort.

The Watson's marriage was in danger of ending before it had barely started. She didn't know the details but something had happened that had very nearly destroyed the couples marital bliss. She knew this before Sherlock had approached her because after only one month of marriage, John had moved back to Baker Street.

At first it had seemed that this was only an arrangement to help Sherlock in his long recovery though it did seem just a little odd that he had made the move weeks before Sherlock was released from the hospital. But that was months ago. Summer had passed and now autumn was almost over. Mary's due date was rapidly approaching and John had still not returned to be with his wife. And the last time Molly had seen Mary, eyes red from crying and belly huge with John's child, she had desperately wanted to shake some sense into the man, sad puppy eyes or not.

The warmth of the pub was in great contrast with the chill outside on this cold December evening and Molly shrugged off her coat as she made her way to the bar. She still had her long stripped scarf wrapped around her neck and it looked cheery in the dimly lit room.

She cleared her throat and John looked up at her taking a moment to come out of his reverie to notice who was trying to get his attention.

"Care for company?" Molly asked, smiling shyly. John shrugged and then waved his hand at the empty seat opposite to his by way of an answer. She plopped herself down draping her coat over the seats back..

She ordered a glass of white wine and they chatted for some time about the case that had brought him to St. Bart's earlier that day.

John and Sherlock had arrived at the morgue that morning awaiting Molly's findings on one Mr. Robert Graham. Mr. Graham was the unfortunate decayed corpse that had made it's way to Molly's table after it's discovery the previous night in a skip in an alley. The corpse lay on her table discoloured and bloated with gas. Molly had brought her scalpel to make the first incision.

She had smiled at John and Sherlock through her plastic visor - decayed bodies tended to be juicy ones. "Um, just a warning. The smell will be quite, uh strong?" her statement sounding more like a question.

She had punctured the corpse with her instrument and there was an audible hiss of released gases followed by a most noxious odour.

John, despite being a competent doctor himself and a veteran whom had witnessed many pus filled cysts, gangrenous wounds and bowel resections in his life, found the smell unbearable. He had left the morgue in a bit of a hurry looking more than a bit green.

When Molly had looked up she was surprised to see Sherlock still there. Many of her coworkers were avoiding the morgue that morning due to the smell. Of course Sherlock looked unfazed. He had the ability to separate himself from physical reactions so he could stay present for the task at hand. It was not so different from Molly's own coping techniques. She couldn't remember a time in her life of being the squeamish type or else she never would have chosen this particular career path. She had fond memories of watching her father work in the embalming room of their family run funeral home and so she had become accustomed to being around the dead no matter what their condition may be at quite a young age.

As she worked on Mr Graham, Sherlock had taken the opportunity to ask a favor of Molly.

And that is what brought her here this night trying to initiate a conversation with this heartbroken man.

"In medical school we were taught to breathe through the mouth when dealing with cases like that. Is that what you were taught?" John nodded and Molly continued, "But my way of thinking is, I would rather smell the corpse than taste it, you know?" she snorted at her own joke while John forced a brief chuckle to be polite. It was okay, Molly was used to her jokes falling flat. Bring on awkward moment and the quick scramble to recovery. Just a part of her routine. She forged bravely on.

"Ah, s-so how is Mary doing?" She could see John's discomfort increase. His brow furrowed and his arms crossed in a protective gesture. She really didn't want to blow this, so she quickly added, "I . . . . I don't mean to pry, John. I was just wondering about the pregnancy? How's the baby?"

Asking after the baby was the right thing to do as she could actually see John's mood brighten considerably. His posture straightened and his smile lit up his face. As it turned out, regardless of

the devastation to the Watson's marriage, John stoically attended every prenatal appointment determined to navigate the stormy relationship and find a way to be a proper father.

"Actually we've had some exciting news." His face beamed in happiness. "Mary had a sonogram last week, We're having a little girl. I'm going to have a daughter, can you believe that?" John laughed and drained the rest of his glass.

"Oh my God! John, that's wonderful!" Molly joined in with John's incredulous laughter. "This calls for another round. My treat." John couldn't argue with Molly's logic. "But you have to let me choose the drink, alright?"

John agreed and Molly went to the bar and ordered. John's eyes widened in an expression of surprise as she walked back to the table with their drinks. He actually laughed and asked, "What the hell is that?"

She handed his drink over. "It's a Purple Martini."

John looked at the drink in his hand. It was an alarming shade of purple and the rim of the martini glass was adorned with blue sugar. A few stray blueberries floated in the drink and as if that wasn't enough of a visual fiesta, there was stir stick topped with colourful tinsel.

"I've never seen anything like it." John admitted. "I didn't even know they made drinks like that here."

"Oh, they don't. But I dated the bartender a couple of times and he knows I like these. Keeps the ingredients around just in case."

"Well the man still feels something for you then." John popped a blueberry into his mouth. "You don't make drinks like this for a casual favour. It's a girl's drink!"

"It's not a girl's drink. Taste it."

John took a sip and grimaced. "It's a girl's drink. Molly." But that didn't stop him from continuing to sip the purple nightmare. They clinked glasses in a toast to John's impending fatherhood.

Molly stared into her glass for a moment, dragging her finger through the condensation on it's outer rim. She glanced out of the corner of her eye trying to judge how far she could press the subject of Mary without driving him away. For the moment she thought she could continue as John was staring off into nothing with a slight smile on his lips. Okay.

"How is Mary feeling then? It looks uncomfortable. Being pregnant that is." She looked up from her drink biting her lip nervously. She knew she was getting into dangerous territory but Molly could be surprisingly persistent when she put her mind to something. She waited for his answer.

John avoided her eyes for a moment and took a long drink, finishing half the glass in one gulp. He wiped a purple moustache from his lips with the back of his hand and cleared his throat before meeting her eyes.

"I, um, I haven't actually seen her since the prenatal last week to be honest, Molly. I've . . ." He cleared his throat again and looked down, "I've been staying at Baker Street for the time being . . ." He trailed off.

It was time to start getting to the point. Plucking up her courage Molly said softly, "John, what happened? You were both so happy at the wedding? Nothing could be that bad, could it?"

John let out one harsh bark of laughter and Molly thought she had never heard such a bitter sound. "Oh Molly, you really have no clue as to how bad things can get. Things are pretty much as fucked up as they can possibly get."

Molly touched his hand just for a second before she replied. "Maybe I don't, John. But I think I have a little understanding of fucked up relationships. I mean let's not forget, I'm the woman who seems determined to fall for sociopaths and when I did get a good and decent man, I completely blew it."They looked at each silently for a moment and then they both burst out laughing.

Wiping tears from his eyes John had to concede, "Okay, right. You've convinced me. Your love life is every bit as fucked up as mine." And that set them both off once more, until Molly was fanning herself with the end of her scarf and John was slapping his knee.

They moved on to lighter topics for awhile. Molly knew not to push too much too soon and so they spent the next hour talking about nothing in particular. They laughed over Anderson's surprising change of attitude regarding Sherlock. They giggled over his sycophantic website that he still maintained; Sherlock Lives, even though that was kind of obvious to pretty much anyone who still cared. They wondered over how no one could ever have predicted that he would become Sherlock's biggest fan.

It was nice and friendly just two friends sharing drinks and enjoying a companionable evening. But Molly had two drinks in her and if she was going to truly help, she needed to set her plan in motion.

"You know what we need, John?" She didn't wait for his reply. "We need to get good and properly smashed."

"Hm, I thought that is what we were in the process of doing." John was starting to look slightly glassy eyed, but he had had a head start.

"No, no, no!" Molly waved her hand in the air. "I mean a real girls night in."

John looked at her for a moment like she had sprouted another head. "Okay, but you know, in fact, that I am not a girl, right? Like, I'm pretty sure, last time I looked in the mirror, yeah? I still had all the man parts required."

"Oh you don't get it. Let me explain. We are both in the midst of experiencing relationship hell, right?" John agreed. It was an understatement in his opinion. "Well a proper cure for heartbreak is a girl's night. We get lots of food and lots of wine and we get completely drunk and complain about our significant others or lack thereof. So what do you say? My place or yours?"

"Well actually that sounds like a decent plan." John was quick to add, "But not my place unless we both want a lecture on how sentiment has lead us to this most pointless state. And how we would be much better off if we followed Sherlock's example of how to live the life of a Vulcan and all that."

"Agreed, agreed" Molly snickered.

"Besides," He patted his hair dramatically. "It's been ages since a pretty girl asked me back to her flat." he preened a bit.

Molly threw a handful of peanuts at John from the bowl on their table. "No offense John, but ew!" she wrinkled her nose in mock disgust.

"And now watch the male ego deflate." John quipped, sinking back into his chair in good humour. But he got right back up and helped Molly with her coat. Then they linked arms and marched out into the night. There were supplies to procure before the evening could properly start.

**AN – Is this any good? I am fairly new to writing, but I have always had story ideas in my head. I just finally decided to start writing them down. R and R, if possible.**


	3. Red Wine and Thai Food

**I own nothing, nothing, nothing! I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, but I will make up for it tomorrow. The next one is much more fun!**

**Red Wine and Thai Food**

And that was how Project Save Watson's Marriage began. At least that is what Molly had dubbed it. Of course Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at Molly's silliness had he known, but it did have the feel of a proper mission. The fact that he had enlisted Molly's help only proved to her that underneath that callous facade there existed quite a bit of sentiment. Of course, this was not the time to point this fact out to Sherlock. Besides, she really did want to help her friends.

So, with the putrid corpse of Mr Graham between them, Sherlock explained the dire state of John and Mary's marriage and when Molly pried Sherlock for more information, a reason why things went so wrong, be it extramarital affairs, money, addiction, he would not say. He only stated that he had done everything he could to convince John to not give up and John would have none of it.

"Sentiment is not my area, Molly. But you, why you are almost completely controlled by feelings-"

"That's not true! I have responsibilities that require detachment and logical reasoning." Molly asserted.

"Hm, Yes. Perhaps." He sounded completely unconvinced to Molly's frustration. "I meant it as a compliment, of course. I deduced that you would be the ideal person to help convince John to give Mary another chance."

There was one thing that had bothered her. "You've never cared much about John's relationships in the past. Why now?"

"I don't particularly. But John's emotional state is completely unacceptable right now. I can't have him moping around the flat. I find it extremely distracting and it affects my ability to work." Sherlock eyes left Molly and darted around looking at anything but her for a moment.

_Oh you liar! _Molly had thought and she had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. _Your Best Man speech was practically a declaration of love for the man. _She knew then that he really and truly wanted to help John and Mary.

"Alright, okay. I'll help, but what can I do?"

Molly and John arrived at her flat laden down with bags of take away from a little Thai restaurant that she liked, the bag of snack foods required for any self respecting girls night in and another bag with enough wine to inebriate an elephant.

Molly unlocked the door and let John in to set the food on her table while she went to the refrigerator to pop the wine in to chill.

"Boxed wine? That's pretty classy, Dr Hooper." John teased.

"Only the best for my friends, Dr Watson." Molly laughed.

The next thing Molly did was excuse herself for a moment telling John to make himself at home. She went into her room and changed in to her comfiest and least sexy clothing in her ward robe which consisted of drab gray baggy sweat pants and a giant shapeless white t shirt that hung to her knees and had a picture of Madonna (from her Lucky Star days, when she wore the big black bow in her teased hair) adorning the front of it. She had also taken a moment to remove her contact lenses and had replaced them with a pair of glasses.

When she joined John in the sitting room she found that he had set the open containers on the low table in front of her sofa. They had decided to do things proper and forgo the plates in favor of forking the food directly from the take away containers.

John looked up at Molly and did a double take at her change of clothing. He thought she always looked younger than her years, but with all traces of make up scrubbed away and her grubby at home clothes she looked like a child.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring a change of clothes. I didn't know it was a pajama party type of girls night. Or are we repainting your kitchen?"

"If I'm going to properly stuff myself with food and alcohol, I have to prepare." Molly explained. "It's like any sporting event. I've got the uniform and the equipment to do this the right way". She skipped over to the kitchen to grab some glasses and called over to John, "Red or White?"

"Surprise me." John's replied.

She handed him his glass where he sat on her sofa and Molly plopped herself down on a pile of cushions on the floor on other side of the table. Her cat Toby sauntered over and curled around her to receive some attention.

"Cheers." Molly clinked her glass to John's. And then they tucked into the food with great enthusiasm.

Having finished the meal, John leaned back, stretched his legs and gave contented sigh. The sleeves of his cable knit jumper were pushed up almost to his elbows.

"You know, this was a pretty good idea. If this is what a girls night is like, I support it wholeheartedly. But I don't think it's entirely different from a regular night out with mates."

"Well, I thought I would wait until after the meal before we started painting each others nails." Molly said feigning a serious tone. "Then it's on to comparing bra sizes and seeing who fancies sparkly vampires."

"Sparkly vampire? Is that what you're calling Sherlock these days?" John hooted.

Molly who was in the process of sipping her drink choked at that, spraying her mouthful of wine in the process. She was coughing so hard that John jumped up and thumped her on the back until she settled down.

Once she was able, she said, "Okay then I will put down that we are both fans of sparkly vampires." She pretended to be writing it down with an invisible pencil on an invisible note pad.

John had his own fit of coughing that sounded suspiciously like the words _Not Gay._ "Fine, but I warn you, pink clashes with my complexion. It makes me look sallow." John batted his eyelids dramatically.

They giggled and for a moment they really did sound like a couple of school girls. Then Molly started gathering up the food containers and closing the lids to put the leftovers in the fridge. John stood up to help her.

"So do men talk about their feelings regarding their love lives then, when they get together?" After packing away the food she rinsed her hands under the tap of her kitchen sink and turned to dry them on a dish towel.

"Right. Well, I can't actually speak for the entire male population, can I?" John shrugged. "But considering that I live with Mr. Spock I would have to say no, generally we don't."

"Well this is girls night, so for tonight yes, yes we do." Molly replied sagely.

"Then we're definitely going to need more drinks." John refilled their glasses and they made their way back to the sitting room.

She was really beginning to feel the affects of the wine. She usually limited her intake, but tonight she was throwing caution to the wind in the name of friendship. And she had to admit it made her bold enough to carry on with her mission.

But before she could try to bring up the topic again John surprised her by beating her to it.

"Right then." He said as if making up his mind to do something quite unsavory. "Did you ever know someone who turned out to be just completely different from who you thought they were?" John seemed to be speaking into his glass. His voice was quiet but she could hear the emotion in his tone.

"I would like to point out that we have Sherlock in our lives. He's constantly surprising us, isn't he?" Molly rearranged her cushions to make a comfortable seat on the floor.

John smiled a bit at this. "Hm, but lately he's more of a good kind of surprising. I mean drug relapse aside, yeah?" His brow furrowed as he continued. "But what if ah, you thought a person was good and decent and kind and sweet hmm, but it's like a mask. Just a cover and it's all a lie, just . . ." His voice became gruffer, struggling to get the words out. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright and he blinked several times while trying to maintain some control. He was looking at the ceiling and was actively avoiding meeting Molly's eyes.

Oh God, the man was so broken, Molly felt her insides hurt for him. She got up on her knees and reached across the table and took John's hand. "John, I refuse to believe that Mary is some whole different person. I don't care what she did! She's still Mary, the woman you fell in love with, right?"

"Still Mary." John laughed that bitter laugh again. "Well that's the question, right? Because I really don't know who she is now." He squeezed her hand briefly before pulling it away.

Molly sighed. This was going to be tougher than she had thought but she remained resolute in her purpose. At least he was opening up. That had to be a good sign! "Okay. So she's not quite what you expected. But don't you think it might be possible to get to know this new Mary? Don't you think you should try? She's the mother of your child. Isn't it worth the effort?" She thought she sounded a bit over the top, but the drinks were making it easier for her to be direct.

"I know your right, Molly. But every time I see her, it's just so damn hard. I don't know what to say without sounding angry. I just don't know how to fix this!" He looked desperate and grabbed his glass and chugged the remainder of it's contents.

"It's okay to be angry, John. Whatever happened, it's okay to feel the way you feel. But there comes a time to start moving past it, isn't there? The question is can you move on?"

"That's exactly my point. I don't know if I can. I want to. For Mary. For our baby girl. I just can't find my way through this bloody anger!" He slammed his cup down hard enough that it broke. "Oh damn it, sorry Molly!" He looked shamefully at the damage.

"It's okay John. Don't worry. Did you hurt yourself?" She looked at his hand and there was a tiny cut on the pad of his thumb. Small beads of blood seeped from the wound. Molly retrieved her first aid kit and had the wound bandaged in no time. They cleaned up the broken glass together.

"Maybe we could change the topic for a bit?" He was almost begging her. What could she do but agree. She would let it go for awhile. But they would come back to this before the night was through.

"And Molly?"

"Yes."

"What should we have for dessert?"

**Hope the dialogue wasn't too awkward. I'm okay with silly, but it's hard writing serious. Do people really talk so directly about there emotions? I guess in fiction they do! I need a girls night, I think, lol! Poor John! Thanks for reading! Maybe leave a review, if you have a moment?**


	4. White Wine and Ice Cream

**I don't own it.**

**This is a short chapter but the next one is longer. I should have it up tomorrow or the next day.**

**White Wine and Ice Cream**

Florence and the Machine played quietly in the background as Molly and John, sitting side by side on the sofa, spooned up the rich and creamy chocolate ice cream. They were each armed with a spoon and they took turns scooping it directly from the container.

"So why not bowls?" John asked. "Don't get me wrong, I'm enjoying the food element of girls night. The baring of the soul is not quite as fun, mind you."

"Bowls are for the weak." Molly snorted. "You see, we've made a commitment to finish the whole container. No backing out now!"

"I will do my best in the face of the challenge." John vowed. "But now it's your turn. Let's talk about you. What happened to Tom?"

Well it was a fair turnabout but she blushed deeply nonetheless. She still felt terrible over the whole thing. "Oh God!" She slapped a hand to her forehead. "I don't even want to think about it. What a disaster!" She let her hand cover her eyes for a moment as if she could somehow block out the memory by doing so.

John would have none of that and prodded her to continue. "Oh come on now, a moment ago you were trying to get me to reveal all the gory little details of the Watson Fiasco. Your turn now, Dr Hooper. Spill it!" John leaned forward elbows on his knees and chin resting on his hand, spoon sticking out from his closed fist.

How could she explain? Maybe she knew it was the beginning of the end that day Sherlock came back to London. Nothing had happened of course. It's not like he threw her to the floor and ravished her right there no matter how much she had fantasized about it. But when he came to her in the ladies lockers at St. Bart's he had brought with him all those feelings she had suppressed. She had worked so hard to crush those them, desperate to find a way to carry on with her life. A life without Sherlock. Because even though he had stayed with her for the first few weeks after his faked death, he had eventually vanished from her life until she really started to believe that she might never see him again. He may well have died out there and she would never know. She had to learn to go on. Because that's what people do. They go on living.

And then he was back and he was different with her. They were friends. He had trusted her with his life and she had earned his respect which was incredibly rare. She knew it was silly to harbour any feelings for him and she had to be content with the reality of their relationship. Truthfully she was very content be his friend.

But that evening when he had asked her to dinner, after that very strange day spent investigating cases with Sherlock, he had commented on her engagement ring and kissed her softly on the cheek wishing her happiness. She knew then that her feelings for him had not diminished, they only lay dormant in his absence. Now they were fully awakened and how they surged through her and so she begged off the dinner invite and ran home to Tom because being with Tom was safe and good and right and most of all sane. Loving Sherlock made no sense. It would only ever end with her being hurt. She knew this with the rational part of her brain. Unfortunately love has a way of being entirely irrational.

And every day since then, the realization that she was about to marry one man while she was in love with another became clearer to her. At John's wedding she had watched Sherlock leave when no one else seemed to notice. She saw how sad and alone he looked. She always saw him. She finished her evening with Tom but she knew it was over.

It was Molly's turn to gulp down half of her drink while she thought of how to explain. "I guess Tom wasn't who I thought he was either. It wasn't his fault though. It was mine entirely. I didn't really see him, I guess. I was deluding myself. It took me a long time to realize it. Does that make any sense?" She bite her lip nervously and slowly turned her wine glass by the stem.

But John surprised her when he said. "Tom's no Sherlock. Is that what your saying?"

She looked at him, stunned for a moment, "Oh my God, John! Was it really that obvious?"

"Oh, no, no." John returned. "Not really. Well other than the hair, the eyes, the cheekbones, the suits, the tendency to turn up his collar to be all tall and cool, but otherwise not at all." John deadpanned.

"I'm such an idiot!" Molly cried blushing furiously. "Such an idiot! Well, everyone must have had a right and proper laugh on my account!" She grabbed a cushion and pressed her face into it.

John tried to pry the pillow away but she held on firmly. "No, no. Hey Molly, it's not really that bad. Ah, hardly anyone noticed. It's okay."

Her muffled voice through the fabric uttered. "If you noticed, then _he_ noticed. He notices everything! Someone should just put me out of my misery!"

"So he may of noticed. It's not a big deal. Really. You are one of the few people he actually likes. Nothing is every going to change that, okay?"

She peeped out from the cheerful crocheted pillow, a little doubtful still, but feeling she may survive the humiliation after all.

John continued. "I mean we all get a little blind when it comes to love, right? So if you're an idiot, I'm right there with you, hm? And so has anyone who has ever fallen in love I expect." He pulled the pillow out of her hand and very gently bopped her head with it before tossing it aside. "So it's still Sherlock then?"

She nodded and sighed. "Of course it's him. It's always him. It's ridiculous, isn't it? Don't say it isn't, I know how pathetic I must seem."

He stuck his spoon back in the container for another big scoop of the now melting ice cream. "You're not pathetic and you're not an idiot. Now Sherlock, he's an idiot. A complete dick at times. And the luckiest bastard to have you as a friend, right?" He stuffed the dripping mess of ice cream into his mouth, dropping a blob on his jumper in the process. "Shit!" he muttered.

Molly passed John a serviette and he attempted to clean himself up. "It seems I have a type." Molly explained.

"Funny," John said dabbing at the stained wool. "I was recently told something similar. Jesus, we need more alcohol!"

**Thanks for the reviews! They are very lovely! **


	5. Beer and Crisps

**I own nothing, but the mistakes. Hope they aren't too terrible!**

**Part of this story is inspired by a one shot by Emcee Frodis who writes such wonderful and entertaining stories. I won't say which one until the end because if you have read it, it would be a big spoiler. I loved writing this chapter. I just hope you like it, too!**

**Beer and Crisps**

The music issuing from Molly's stereo had switched from Florence to a mix of 80's pop tunes and at this moment Cyndi Lauper was declaring that Girls really did in fact, Just Want to Have Fun. And John was trying to convince Molly that there was actually some _g__ood_ music from that decade.

"What? This is good music!" Molly slurred. She had returned to her nest of pillows on the floor, but now she lay sprawled and her hair had fallen from the hasty bun she had put it in earlier that evening and was back to its frizzy chaos.

"Oh God, what do they teach you kids these days? Of course you were an infant then. What would you know?" John lay on the sofa on his side with his head propped up on his elbow. The tragically stained jumper was tossed aside, exposing his green checkered shirt underneath.

"Well I wasn't an infant for the entire decade! And you're what? Maybe six or seven years older than me? These are classics. Everyone loves this stuff!"

The next up was Boy George's Karma Chameleon.

"Oh that's it! Next time I'm choosing the music. You need a bit of an introduction to some good ska music. I should think you would at least have something from The Specials or The Beat?"

Molly shot him the finger which John seemed to find ridiculously hilarious coming from the mousy pathologist.

Molly was actually having a really fun evening with John. And really, she shouldn't be surprised because John was always kind and charismatic and as funny as hell. But given the sadness that followed him like a cloud these days and her own nervousness over pushing him to discuss his heart ache, she hadn't really considered just how _good _this evening could be. For both of them.

"Did you know," She said after John's giggles abated, "He stayed here for awhile?" She lay on her back with her wine glass balanced precariously on her chest, two fingers on it to prevent it from tipping and she looked at John from the corner of her eye to observe his reaction.

"Who stayed where?" He was starting to slur a little himself and his eyes were glassy and half lidded.

"Sherlock did. When he was, you know, supposed to be dead. He stayed here at my flat." She waved her hand in the air for a moment indicting the space around her. "Just at first, before he, you know . . ."

"He did?" John sounded surprised. He knew Molly was involved with his faked death, but she had never told him the extent of her involvement. She thought it was up to Sherlock if he ever wanted to share the whole story. Somehow she hadn't expected him to though. He did like to keep that air of mystery about him.

"Huh!" John grunted. "All I know is that for me, it was such a very _special_ time of debilitating depression." He replied in a tone dripping of sarcasm

"Sorry John!" Molly tried to sit up spilling her drink in the process. Fortunately there wasn't much in the glass at that point. "I mean it. You have no idea how terrible I felt keeping that secret. You know that, right?"

John grinned at Molly and made a waving gesture of dismissal."Of course I know, I'm just having you on a bit. You helped save him. No matter how much I complain about him, I'm really thankful to have the git back in my life." He stifled a yawn then continued. "So he stayed here, eh? Let me guess how that went. Drove you crazy with his moods? Deduced you to tears for his entertainment? Or did he just stay up all night and maybe shoot some holes in your walls? I speak from experience." John tossed her a serviette to wipe up her spill.

"Actually we watched quite a bit of telly." She quickly dabbed at the droplets on the floor then crumpled the towel and tossed it on the low table.

"And he was yelling at it before shooting it, right?"

"No shots were fired, thankfully." Molly giggled, flopping back down on the floor. "Does he really do that?"

"It's been known to happen. Mrs Hudson keeps a tab for Sherlock related damages. And I am fairly certain he isn't getting his deposit back." Toby had jumped up on the sofa at this point and must have decided that John was a decent fellow. He crawled up onto his stomach where he curled up for a nap.

"So what did he watch? Documentaries on Visigothic architecture? Better that than crime shows though. Those are the ones that really get him shouting. He points out all the mistakes and whines about how obvious the story line is. I always tell him to turn the bloody thing off if it's that bad, but I think he just likes the sound of his own voice, frankly." John was absently stroking Toby's head and the cat was purring as loud as a motor.

Molly smiled at the mental picture of on irate Sherlock yelling at the telly. "He didn't do any of that here. He would never admit to it, but I think he was pretty distraught over hurting his friends. He was . . . subdued? But he _was _easier to live with because of it, I would guess. Didn't ask for much. And he let me control the telly. So we just watched lots of movies."

"What kind of movies." John seemed fascinated with this forlorn version of his best friend.

"I tried to pick light, up beat stuff. I think under normal circumstances he would have hated it! We watched a lot of musicals. He seemed to especially like the older ones with Fred Estaire and Ginger Rogers or even Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds. Nothing modern. And there had to be dancing. I never would have guessed he would enjoy that!"

"Dancing, of course." John chuckled.

"What do you mean _of course_?" She rolled over onto her side so she could see him properly.

"Sherlock can dance."

Molly's mouth fell open. "What? You're kidding, right?"

"No. No, I'm not. He, uh, well I'll have to kill you if you tell anyone . . ."

"Oh, now you _have_ to tell!"

"Fine. Sherlock taught me how to dance for the wedding."

"Get out! Now I know you're having me on." She tossed a pillow at him, but he caught it and stuck it under his head to get more comfortable.

"Thanks Molly. Neck was getting a bit sore." He said resting his head on the cushion. "And I am most definitely not joking. You can ask Mrs Hudson. She walked in on one of our lessons. The poor woman didn't know how to react. On the one hand, she was getting pretty excited about the wedding and she would have been disappointed if it were to be canceled. But on the other hand she was always hoping that Sherlock and I would work things out. I don't think there is anything in this world that will convince her that we were never a couple."

Sherlock and John dancing, that was something Molly wished she could have seen. "Well who can blame her? You two make a lovely couple!"

"Oh Jesus, no!" he moaned. "I'm sorry, but even if I were gay - and I say this while admitting I love the idiot - he and I would not be together. No way! Wouldn't he be the worst? You can't really want to date the wanker, can you? Listen Molly, I could think of many experiences that would be more pleasant like being covered in poisonous spiders or getting swallowed by an anaconda or even listening to nothing but Justin Bieber for the rest of your life-"

"Justin Bieber isn't so bad." Molly interrupted.

"Yes he is. He really is. In fact I take that back. I really would rather date Sherlock than listen to that music for an eternity. But otherwise I wouldn't. Besides, I've already seen enough of Sherlock walking around in nothing but a sheet. I'd rather skip seeing what's underneath." John winced as Toby had started to knead his claws into his chest.

Molly had seen her share of the sheet when he had stayed with her. But something didn't quite match her own experience. Something was just a little off . . .

"He keeps the sheet on?" Molly asked looking perplexed.

"Um, Yeah. Thank God . . . Why? Are you saying he didn't here?"

"No. He was dropping it and forgetting about it constantly, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. And he doesn't do that at your flat?" She thought she must have heard him wrong. Wasn't it just one of those things Sherlock did to make people uncomfortable? She wouldn't put that past him. But he had acted so subdued. It didn't fit with his behaviour at the time.

John shook his head dramatically. "I'm bloody thankful he didn't. I would have had to poke my own eyes out otherwise."

"Oh it wasn't so bad." Molly murmured looking the very picture of innocence. "He's got quite a cute bum."

"Aaaaaaand that's all I ever want to hear about his arse ever again in my life time. You're a sick woman Molly Hooper!"

Molly tended to agree with that sentiment.

They drank in silence for a moment until John said, "But that's odd, isn't it?"

"Odd?" Molly startled out of her reverie. She may or may not have been lost in thoughts about a cute pale white bottom.

"Well Sherlock doesn't exactly stop doing anything to spare someones feelings now does he? He never walks around in the buff without a sheet or a dressing gown at home. If he wanted to do that, he would. My comfort wouldn't stop him. Hell, Mrs. Hudson's comfort wouldn't stop him. This is interesting . . ."

"How so?"

"I was just remembering something from my stag do. . . " John trailed off deep in thought.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask about that. Hang on a second." Molly struggled to her feet and staggered to the kitchen to grab the packet of crisps they had purchased earlier in the evening.

"Do you want beer with these, John?" she called from the kitchen, shaking the package above her head. "I think I have some in the back of the fridge. Frankly crisps with wine is a bit disgusting."

"More food? Really? Right, girls night. Okay then. Sure, why not?"

She teetered back, tossed the package on the table and handed the cold open bottle over.

John sipped the beer and smacked his lips. Molly guessed he was more of a beer drinker under normal circumstances.

She tossed a crisp in her mouth and chased it soon after with a deep draught from her bottle. "Did you know that Sherlock came to the lab before your stag do? He wanted me to help him make some calculations to ensure that you didn't drink too much. And you still ended the night in jail. Greg said you guys were utterly wasted and trashing some poor man's apartment. What happened?"

John smiled. "Well I wouldn't say we trashed it. There may have been some inadvertent vomiting."

"Oh no!" Molly gasped, but she couldn't hide her smirk. "Well my math was sound. There is something you are not telling me."

"Yeah, that was a bit my fault." He was visibly enjoying the telling of this tale. "I started dropping shots into our beers. But I had to do it, damn it! Sherlock was pulling out his mobile and timing our rate of alcohol intake. He wouldn't let me get another until the timer said I could. Okay, I could take that. Strange, but whatever. But Molly, I draw a line at being asked to estimate my urine out put."

Molly laughed so hard at that, she almost had her own urine out put issue. When she got back from the loo she said, "And he didn't notice. The great consulting detective didn't notice you were adding whiskey to his beer." She looked at John disbelieving.

"I know, right? The whole disaster was worthwhile just to pull one over like that. I mean I really thought he would taste it, but he didn't even notice." John grabbed a huge handful of crisps and proceeded to pop them in his mouth rapidly, one at a time.

"Great story!" Molly exclaimed. "But how is that in any way connected to Sherlock's bare arse in my flat?"

John pulled a grimace at the thought. "Well we were arrested as you already know. And what a fun experience I really hope not to repeat, I might add. The ride to the station was hellish! Sherlock's pissed off so many officers over the years, they made sure they enjoyed every bit of his fall from grace. I bet every one of them has a picture on their respective mobiles and desk tops of us sitting cuffed in the back seat" John brightened a bit. "He got them back a bit though with the mess he made in the back of the car."

"You mean he-,"

"Oh yeah, it was gruesome. Vast quantities of vomit. It was horrible and hilarious all rolled up into one."

"Oh no!"

"So they toss us into a cell. Sherlock weaves his way to the one bed in there and passes out immediately leaving my arse to freeze on the bloody floor."

"Typical." Molly nodded, thinking about how Sherlock had taken over her room when he had stayed there leaving her with the spare room. And she had left him to it, considering all that he had gone through for his friends. Still it seemed a little presumptuous to her at the time.

"Oh yes! And now to the point of the story. And though I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember this part, I tell you this Molly, knowing that our brilliant friend would make sure that my body would be the very next one in your morgue if he knew that I told you this. And that's only if there was anything left to be found.."

Molly sat up again leaning in to hear what John was going to say. Oh the anticipation!

"So he's laying there sounding like a dying cow, sort of moaning, right? And then he says something bizarre."

"Sherlock's always saying bizarre things."

"Not like this." John said. "It was about you." He pointed at Molly.

"What?" She squeaked. She couldn't imagine what Sherlock Holmes could possible have to say about her unless he was dreaming about ordering copies of death certificates or trying to find lungs of a male smoker between the ages of 50-60 years.

John closed his eyes perhaps trying to dreg up the memory from his alcohol addled brain. "He said." And then John dropped his voice down an octave in imitation of Sherlock's baritone. "Molly and Tom are having lots of sex."

Molly's jaw dropped.

"He sounded all outraged but he's lying there with his eyes closed like he's asleep. Except he kept waving one arm in the air once in awhile. I remember that part especially, because he smacked me in the head 3 or 4 times." John rubbed the top of his head at the memory.

"Then he says this." John takes on the deeper tone once more. "Tom. Stupid ridiculous Tom. Tom with Molly. Intelligent Molly. Sweet Molly. My Molly with her pretty little mouth." John switches back to his normal tone. "And then he's down for the count."

"NO!" Molly practically shouted. "You must have misheard! You were drunk yourself. You . . .that . . .that . . . He did not say that!" Now her blush was absolutely crimson as she spluttered and stammered over this bit of information.

"He did, I tell you! Believe me, I may have had too much to drink that night, but when he said that . . . well that sobered me up better than a bucket of ice water." John started petting Toby again as the cat had startled at Molly's outburst. It didn't take much to convince the animal to stay put.

"Now," John continued. "You can't tell him Molly or else I am pretty certain that the next head in our refrigerator will be mine. But I thought you should know seeing as you're a single woman once again. I mean I still can't understand why you want to date the guy, but-" he shrugged.

Molly sat in disbelief. It was rather hard to take this in since Sherlock had never ever let on that he had any interest in her that way. It had to be some kind of mistake!

"I still think that you're teasing me or that this is some sort of . . . experiment."

"It's not. I'm sure it's not. I would never tease you that way and Sherlock . . . well he was so out of it, he was beyond coherent thought. I swear, I laughed for 10 minutes after he said all that. All he did after that was to mumble something to the effect of _shut up,_ _John_ and then he was snoring."

"And you think this has something to do with his prancing bare arsed around my place?" Molly asked

"Well he doesn't seem inclined to parade it around me. Again very thankful for that."

"So what your saying is that he wanted me to stare at his bum? Maybe wanted me to . . . to . . . check him out? That it was some weird form of flirting?Come to think of it, when he turned around to face me he did the cutest thing with his-"

John looking horrified yelled, "NO! No. No, no, no, no, no. We are not talking about that. Seriously, Molly or girls night is over!" Toby hissed and darted away startled by John's outburst. Humans make lousy cat beds apparently.

Molly giggled into her hand. "I was going to say toes, John. My god man, where is your mind?"

"Toes." John mumbled. "Of course."

They shared a good hearty laugh. Then John continued. "What I am saying, Molly Hooper is that no matter how much Sherlock denies it, he has some kind of _feeling_s for you."

**A/N Cellblock Confessions by Emcee Frodis inspired part of this chapter. She's just brilliant!**

**A few fun Martin Freeman tidbits included are his love of ska and his enjoyment flipping the bird!**

**No hate intended for music tastes. I just figured that Molly would enjoy pop music and John . . . not so much.**

**Also John calling Sherlock all those names – John doth protest too much, methinks! **

**Whew, long chapter . . . for me. I probably won't get the next one up until next week as I have a hellish bit of a work week ahead of me! **


	6. Vodka and Gherkins Part 1

**Vodka and Gherkins Part 1**

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for the lovely reviews! For this next chapter, I had to break in half, as it was going on over 4000 words. **

**The song quoted is Crazy by Emanuel Lasky. It is on Youtube and is a rare Motown tune. Very good one and appropriate for John and Molly, both of whom may be a little crazy for loving the people that they do.**

**I don't own anything and drink responsibly, kids, haha!**

_Where are you?_ Most of her body was swallowed by the depths of her lower kitchen cupboards. Just her bottom was visible as she reached further into the back shelves, quite a ludicrous sight, had anyone else walked into her kitchen at that moment to witness her fruitless search. Fortunately, John Watson was still in her sitting room as she hunted for some more elusive indulgences. Molly continued to shift around bottles of cleaning fluids, soaps and powders. She shoved a box of pink kitchen gloves aside and tossed a container of steel wool over her shoulder. Unfortunately the object of her search remained hidden.

_I know it's here somewhere! _Having searched the entire contents of the low cupboards she squirmed her way back out of the tiny space. She tried to stand up and in the process she whacked the back of her head on the cupboard's door frame and when she tried to move her hand to tend to her aching skull she somehow managed to slam her thumb in the cupboard door. This resulted in an entirely un-Molly-like string of uttered curses.

She rubbed the back of her head and felt a small bump forming there. And as if that wasn't enough, when she checked her thumb she could already see the bruise forming underneath the nail. She would probably lose it as a result. She stuck her thumb under the cold water of the tap for a moment as a temporary measure to numb the pain.She always was a bit accident prone, but the extent of her clumsiness was increasing right along with her degree of intoxication.

But she remained steadfast in her search as she eyed the upper cupboards, the next place she must tackle. She pulled out a chair to reach the upper shelves, but took extra care. Falling would be a great way to bring this night to an abrupt end! She imagined John carting her broken body to A&E. _Please can you help my friend? We were having a bit of a girls night and it seems she might have she broken her neck searching her cupboard for her hidden liquor. _Nope! That was not how she wanted this night to end!

Moving around cans of beans and peas (G_od, how long had those sat there? Time to clean out your pantry Molly dear!_) and a variety of jars and bottles, she redoubled her efforts. She knew it was in here somewhere amongst the tins of fish and soup so she pushed them aside. Perhaps it was behind the carton of fancy molasses she had bought last year to make Christmas biscuits and hadn't touched since? And really, did anyone have a use for fancy molasses outside of the holidays?

Then she saw it peeping out at her as if to say, _go ahead, I dare you!_

"There you are you little bugger." she muttered under breath at the bottle hidden behind a jar of gherkins. She pushed the jar aside and snatched up the bottle and made to jump down from the kitchen chair. But then she had another thought and suddenly she turned back. Molly grabbed the jar of gherkins too, because, why not?

That's when she heard the scratchy recording drift from the other room like a relic out of another place in time.

_Crazy – I said I'm crazy_

_Crazy – I must be crazy_

_Must be crazy for lovin' you_

_Gotta be crazy for lovin' you_

It wasn't any music from her own collection, neither from her precariously stacked pile of cds, nor her playlists on her lap top or phone. Filled with curiosity she hurried back with her hands full of her recent findings, when her eyes met quite a sight

It seemed that John really had grown tired of her musical choices and had finally turned to drastic measures. He had brought out his own mobile phone and plugged it into her stereo. There he stood snapping his fingers and swaying to the tune, shuffling his feet in a pretty decent groove.

"Oh I thought you said you couldn't dance!" Molly exclaimed plopping the handful of her findings unto the table with a clink of glass. "Surely he didn't teach you this?" Molly tried to visualize Sherlock dancing to something so contemporary but she just couldn't do it.

John clapped his hands, tipped an imaginary hat in her direction and did a little spin that reminded her vaguely of Michael Jackson. Well maybe not quite as smooth, but he could really keep a beat!

"Well I couldn't waltz or any of those proper ball room dances and what have you. But this is Motown, Molly. I can dance to this!" He gave her a brilliant shit-eating grin and picked up the pace with an exaggerated flourish which Molly applauded excitedly.

_I never count the heartache,_

_You've caused me through the years _

_It would take a mighty, mighty river,_

_To hold my many, many tears._

"Bravo, Doctor!" Molly laughed.

The rhythm of the music filled Molly up until she found she could no longer keep her feet still. It began with a tapping of her toes and worked it's way up. And though she was not as keen of a dancer as John, what she lacked in grace she made up for in sheer enthusiasm. So she found herself moving to the catchy beat, swaying her hips along with the tempo.

John laughed and held out a hand and Molly took it as he guided her in a swinging up-beat groove. They were both laughing and sweating. So immersed were they, enjoying the moment when Molly noticed how relaxed John had become. He seemed in such high spirits, something she had not seen for such a terribly long time. She wondered, not for the first time that night how Sherlock could possibly have known that this was exactly what his friend needed, when he always claimed ignorance in regards to human interactions? It was like the true Sherlock was bursting out of the facade he had always affected and all of these contradictions were revealed beneath.

They danced through several songs, some of which she didn't recognize, but she enjoyed them immensely for their energetic tempo and soul stirring sentiment It was very freeing and she really did feel almost graceful for once in her life. Well, she did feel graceful, but when inspiration hit her and she let go of John's hand to twirl, her ungainliness made a sudden and perhaps predictable reappearance. Her feet became entangled and stumbling, they shot out from under her. And though John scrambled valiantly to catch her, he was ultimately unsuccessful in his attempt. Molly fell. Hard. On her arse. She lay sprawled on her back on the floor.

"Ow." she said rather anticlimactically.

"Jesus Molly! Are you alright?" He squatted down beside her peering into her eyes, _probably trying to determine head injury,_ Molly thought to herself. _I think t__he damage is a wee bit lower down._

"Can you move? Did you hurt anything?"

"Only my pride." John took her hands and pulled her carefully to her feet. She winced and rubbed her bottom.

"And my arse." She added.

John's struggled to hold back his smirk he as he piled pillows on the sofa and helped Molly sit delicately upon them.

She gave a little hiss as she sat. "I'm going to feel that in the morning!" She lamented.

That was it for John and he burst out laughing. "Ah ha, oh, sorry Molly," He gasped. "It's rude to laugh at your expense. But you l-looked . . .so-o . . . damn!" He couldn't finish, he was breathless with laughter.

What could Molly do but join him?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

They looked at the bottle of vodka on the table before them with more than a hint of trepidation.

They were once again seated side by side on the sofa. John looked at Molly and said, "You know, tonight's been fun up until this point, Molly. But now I do believe you're trying to kill me."

Molly waved her hand dismissively. "Oh pshaw! Man up, John! This is our grand finale!"

"Can I point out that _manning up _would be contradictory to girls night?" John conveyed.

Her only reply was to grab the bottle from the table. Blowing away the accumulated dust from the time spent untouched in her kitchen cupboard, she twirled the cap off with dramatic flair. The cap fell to the floor and rolled away somewhere. Maybe under the sofa? Molly didn't care.

The only shot glasses she could find were wedding guest gifts (thankfully not John and Mary's- that would be just too cruel) and the words printed on each glass read _Mark & Cindy got married and all I got was this damn glass. _Classy.

Pouring the vodka with an unsteady hand, Molly only spilled a few drops of the stuff.

She turned to John. "You first."

"Hang on a moment." He grinned, "This was your brilliant idea."

"But John, you are my guest." She stated with an air of self sacrifice. "Please, after you. I mean, proper manners and all that."

So he picked up the glass, staring at it for a moment and then holding it high he blew out a preparatory breath.

"Na Zdorovie!" He cheered, upending the glass and pouring the contents into his mouth and down his throat. He gasped at the burning sensation.

"Smooth." he croaked.

"Na Zdorovie, John?" She giggled. "You sound like you're in a 1970's spy film. You know they only say that in the movies, right?"

"Of course I do . . . I was being clever. Alright smart arse, it's your turn." He gestured at her glass on the table expectantly.

"Yes. Fine. I can do this." She plucked up her courage.

An occasional sugary mixed drink was one thing, but Molly wasn't in the habit of downing liquor straight up. She didn't even have any orange juice left so she could at least make it into a more palatable screwdriver.

_But the sacrifices we make for friends . . . _Molly thought, rather selflessly. Besides, it really _was_ her silly idea. And tossing back liquor from shot glasses seemed like something one should at least try once in a lifetime.

She held her glass aloft, as John had, and tried to prepare herself.

"Prost!" she said and wincing in anticipation, she gulped down the drink all at once.

**Oh! My! Fire!**

She held up a hand to cover her mouth while she coughed and gasped for some cooling air.

That is when John leaned over and saucily remarked, "You know, they only say Prost for beer, right?"

"Of course!" she hissed. "Well, I do now."

"So, dancing, food, confessions and now shots. What do you say Molly? Are we doing girls night justice?"

"To be honest." she confessed, "I don't really know. I haven't really had too many in recent years. Just this and the one with Mary."

"My Mary?"

"Well yes. Um I mean, not the drinking part, obviously. But I sort of ran into her at Bart's and she really looked like she could use the company, right?"

"You did that for her?"

"W-well yes. She's a friend. And she looked so, well she was just so lost and sort of . . . sad looking and I never really had a lot of girl friends growing up. I just thought she needed somebody."

John thought this over quietly for awhile. He looked genuinely taken aback.

"Can I ask what you talked about?" John looked as though he didn't expect Molly to answer, but the look changed to that of surprise as she replied immediately.

"Of course, you can John! Why else are we doing all this?" she admitted.

"I mean, We talked quite a lot about the pregnancy and the baby. She told me how frightened and excited she is about the upcoming birth."

John smiled a bit at this.

"But mostly, John . . . we talked about you. Of course we did! She talked about you and cried ever so much. She's heartbroken, completely and utterly heartbroken."

"Did she – did she tell you what happened?" John quietly directed his question at the floor.

"No!" Molly burst out in annoyance. "And I know it's none of my business. But I don't understand all this evasiveness! Everyone knows what happened but me. I'm fine with that, by the way, but it is making this particularly difficult!"

"It's making what difficult?"

"Oh! I'm sorry John!I thought you had figured this out. I just want to help!"

"What?"

"I'm trying to convince you to give Mary another chance!" Molly huffed in that way women do, when they are sure that the man they are addressing is quite clueless.

"Oh!"

And John sat for a moment in a gobsmacked silence.

**I'll have the next part up in a couple of days. More Vodka and gherkins. More international cheers. More John and Mary. More Motown. And more drunken silliness.**

**Thanks for reading. If you're interested in the Motown playlist for this chapter besides the song listed up top they were as follows; I Can't Help Myself (Sugarpie, Honeybunch) by The Four Tops, Where Did Our Love Go by The Supremes, Jimmy Mack by Martha and the Vandellas, Leaving Here by Eddie Holland, Stop Her on Sight (SOS) by Edwin Starr, and Let's Stay Together by Al Green.**


	7. Vodka and Gherkins Part 2

**A/N – Thank you for the follows and reviews! The characters are not mine. The mistakes are - so sorry about those! Hope they are not too bad? The song in this chapter is Band of Gold by Freda Payne. It is on youtube – hope you will check it out. It's another great Motown tune!**

"Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

They were both relaxing, slumped in their respective spots on the sofa, feet propped up on the low table and heads resting on the back of the seat. John's green stripped stockinged feet crossed at the ankles and Molly's fuzzy pink-slippered feet stretched out next to his. They each clutched a gherkin which they nibbled intermittently with loud crunching bites.

"Okay." Molly replied turning her head to look at him.

"What is the worst chat up line you've ever heard?"

"What?"

"The worst chat up line. What's the absolute worst one you've ever heard?"

"You're serious?" Molly was taken aback.

John nodded.

There were ever so many she had heard over the years! Where to begin?

"Hmm, well I've heard more than my fair share, John." She mulled it over for a moment taking another bite of gherkin.

"Let me see . . . well there _is_ one particularly horrible one that stands out. It was a few years back, when I first started working at Bart's. I rung up an old school chum to help celebrate and we decided to go out to some night clubs. In places like that, you expect to hear a few good ones. And it's part of the fun isn't it? Just part of the game. But this one was an _utter_ gem!"

Molly recounted the incident starting with the dodgy looking character on the dance floor that kept _accidently_ brushing up against her until finally without so much as a how-do-you-do-my-name-is, the guy sidled up to her and started to gyrate up against her!

"Then he says what I believe to be the most disgusting and least likely to succeed chat up line ever uttered by man. He says," And Molly deepens her voice in a mock male simulation. "_Your eyes are like spanners- every time I look at them my nuts tighten."_

"Oh my God, you're not serious?" John laughed. "That's terrible! What did you do?"

"I assure you, I am completely serious. And I tossed my drink in his face, that's what I did." Molly bite into her gherkin with a crunch. "Shame. It was a waste of a perfectly good drink."

They chuckled over this for a minute.

"So what about a chat up line that worked then? Been any of those?" John bite into his own gherkin and continued to look at Molly in fascination.

"Well sure. Loads of times actually. Remember the bartender? He used the old _did it hurt when you fell from heaven _line. More than a bit unoriginal, right? But he seemed harmless so I went along with it."

"So why aren't you still dating Mr. Purple Martini then?"

"We just weren't compatible" Molly stated without elaboration.

"That's it?"

Molly wrinkled her nose. "We-ell OK, it was more than that. He had some habits I just couldn't get past."

"For example?" John prodded.

"Um, alright. I can not believe I'm telling you this! He had this horrible habit of constantly adjusting himself, if you know what I mean. I swear, he must have some sort of health issue. An infestation? An infection? I decided friends was as far as I wanted to take that one!"

"Ew." John grimaced. "Wise choice."

"How about you John? Did _you_ have any special chat up lines?"

"Nothing special." John avoided meeting Molly's eyes.

"Hm," Molly looked around nonchalantly. "Funny."

"How so?" John asked innocently.

"Oh nothing really." She remained silent for a moment. John pretended to be fascinated with the afghan draped across the sofa.

Molly continued, "I just thought that _Three Continent__s__ Watson _might have some special approach when it came to the ladies, that's all."

John gave Molly a scandalized look. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Oh, just a little something Mike mentioned in passing. Seems you had quite a reputation in your army days."

"That is highly exaggerated, Molly." But he couldn't hide his chuffed expression.

"Don't deny it, Watson! I can see that smug look! Now how did you do it! What was your secret!"

"Nothing! It's entirely based on my own charms and boyish good looks." He batted his eyes.

"Oh Bollocks! Don't you hold out on me, John! You're trying to tell me that hundreds of ladies were throwing themselves at your feet on pure charm?"

"Oh, now, I wouldn't say hundreds." A thinly veiled attempt at modesty.

"I know you had a method. Now tell me! Please? Pretty please?" She dialed up her most whiny tone.

"You want me to give you an example?"

"Yes!"

"You're sure?"

"Ugh! Yes, John. That's what I'm saying."

"OK, alright. You asked for it."

John turned to face Molly and softened his expression. He dropped the smug look and smiled at her gently. He leaned towards her, his eyes met her own and he held the gaze with a soft intensity she had never before noticed in John. His body leaned towards her. And then he began.

"My God, you are so beautiful!" He said to her and continued to gaze into her eyes for a moment longer before continuing.

"And it's not just an outer beauty. It's like you make me see how truly beautiful life is. And I just want to be a part of this world knowing that you are a part of it." He brought his hand up and swept a strand of Molly's hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. "My whole life has led to this moment. It's led me to loving you."

"Oh. Oh my." said Molly, mouth hanging open for a moment, swept up temporarily by the power of Watson. "That's actually a bit good!"

John dropped his hand and lounged back to his side of the sofa and laced his hands behind his head, looking pretty satisfied with himself.

"And that, Molly, is how it's properly done."

She shook her head to clear it and went on. "Oh my gosh, John! Did you use that on Mary?"

"What? No! I mean, I've said things like that to her. But it was never planned or calculated. It was always from the heart and in the moment with her. I've always wanted to be open and honest with Mary right from the start. She never would have fallen for anything less. She would see right through that."

He sighed, looking ever so sad.

"And that's why all of this is so bloody difficult. She lied to _me!_ How do I get past that?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The vodka was poured and with the next round set, Molly and John made their preparations for the hellacious burn of cheap vodka.

"Salut!" John toasted and swallowed the foul drink.

"Brilliant, John!" Molly hooted in drunken enthusiasm.

And then Molly held up her glass.

"Gambai!" She slurred and gulped the disgusting substance.

"Yes, yes! Good one, Molly!" John returned with equal fervour.

They continued to nibble at gherkins in attempt to banish the vile tasting vodka. Molly wasn't sure if it really helped, but she had read somewhere that pickled foods were a good accompaniment to vodka so she kept eating.

"You know, she cried on my shoulder all night."

"Huh?" John asked blearily.

"Mary. She cried all night. I've never seen anyone hurt so badly."

"Hm, I find that hard to believe considering the hurt that _she_ has caused." John sighed. The words were harsh, but they came from a place of sadness and despair rather than bitterness.

"She was the one who hurt people." He continued.

"You?"

"Not just me. Not in the same way, that is. But she hurt someone that I care about."

Molly looked at John, but he didn't seem to noticed the narrow eyed look she gave him. She needed to pursue this with caution. Molly knew she could not force John to reveal the full story that was behind the tumultuous marriage, but maybe she could tiptoe around it to find a path on the other side. A path that might lead to healing and forgiveness.

"This person she hurt." She asked." I wonder if this person has forgiven her?"

"Why yes, actually. I believe so. But I don't know why he would. It makes no sense to me!"

So, John revealed that it was a man. Molly considered this. John didn't seem to notice his blunder so she pressed on.

"So the person she hurt has found it within himself to forgive her. I just have one question for you, John. If he can forgive her then why can't you?"

John's brow furrowed as her tried to logic his way through this question but he had no answer to give her.

The next song on John's playlist began, as if on cue specifically for this occasion;

_Now that you're gone, all that's left is a band of gold_

_All that's left of the dreams I hold_

_Is a band of gold and the memories of what love could be_

_If you were still here with me_

And with that John, who had always tried so hard to remain stoic in the face of heart break and pain, the man who obviously felt his emotions deeply but always worked hard to keep his tears at bay, burst into the most heart wrenching sobs Molly had heard in her life. John sounded utterly and completely gutted.

She draped an awkward arm over his shoulder and he actually permitted her to pull him into an uncomfortable hug – uncomfortable for them emotionally, as much as physically.

A sudden image popped unbidden to her mind of John at Sherlock's funereal, holding himself in a rigid military stance. She knew he was heartbroken then as well, but to the public eye he had held in his sorrow. Molly felt responsible. She had added alcohol to the equation and this was the result.

"Hey now, John, hey, i-it's going to be alright! Come on now." She felt the tears prickling her _own_ eyes in response. She sniffled and her lip wobbled in effort to hold back her own alcohol-infused tears. She thought to herself, _Oh this is lovely now. I'm sure if I start crying __**that**__ will be a really great help!_

The song continued;

_Don't you know that I wait in the darkness of my lonely room_

_Filled with sadness, filled with gloom?_

_Hoping soon that you'll walk back through that door_

_And love me like you tried before._

Molly continued to rub John's shoulder and he struggled with the tears he had held in for far too long a time.

"You know, this song is deceptively chipper sounding." Molly observed.

John guffawed at this and laughter through tears, truly one of life's sweetest emotions, delighted them and brought them back to a place well grounded in friendship and support, creating renewed feelings of hope. Or so Molly wished.

Molly pulled her arm away to retrieve a serviette. She passed it to John and he wiped his tear stained face and blew his nose into the napkin with a wet honk.

"And now I really have truly fulfilled all my girls night duties." John laughed with some embarrassment. His voice still hitching a bit.

"Jesus, I really have had too much to drink, crying like a sloppy drunk." he shrugged in resignation and sighed.

"I miss her, Molly." And there it was. All that mattered was this.

"Of course you do, John. And she misses you! You may not believe that, but she does! So she's not quite who you thought her to be? Who is? Don't we all have a public face. Is it ever a perfect match for how you feel inside? Besides, I don't care what you say - she's still Mary! She's still there. And there was something that drew you to her in the first place, right? It's still there, John!"

"You know, on the night it happened, Sherlock told me something I didn't really believe at the time. He said I always knew who Mary really was on some level and that I seek certain types of people in my life." He slurred.

"Oh yes, types." Molly nodded. "We really do seem to have our types, don't we? Mary is yours. Just as Sherlock is probably mine. We may grumble about the unfairness of it, but would we really have them any other way? If Mary was some other person, would you have fallen in love with her?"

"Probably not. She would have likely fallen into the category of a fun time." John had to concede.

"A conquest for Three Continents Watson?" Molly asked.

John smiled, "Exaggerations, Molly."

"Whatever you say, John. So how about it? One more drink to our types?"

"To our types. Sure. Why not?"

John poured out for the last time that night. He held his glass high.

"Skal." He said wearily and gulped down the drink in it's entirety.

And then Molly held hers aloft unsteadily, slopping some down her arm.

"Quapla!" She shouted and John startled. His eyes had been drooping but Molly's yell had caused them to pop open wide.

"What the hell was that?" 

"Klingon." Molly slurred proudly after downing her last drink. "Though technically a proper Klingon cheer would be _Lwllj jachjaj!" _

A little saliva flew from Molly's mouth as often happens with the proper Klingon enunciation.

"But that quite literally translates to _May your blood scream. _Whereas _Quapla _simply means _good luck_. Seemed more fitting under the circumstances, don't you think?"

Not for the first time that night, John looked at her like she was something inexplicably strange.

He blinked and shook his head. "Alright. The fact that you know Klingon is slightly disturbing. But on the other hand I am having a much easier time picturing you with Sherlock. In fact I believe you two were made for each other."

Molly just shrugged and finished her gherkin.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

John was resting his head back on the sofa, legs stretched out, feet splayed on the table.

"Thanks, Molly. For tonight. I think I really needed this." John's eyes were seriously drooping and he kept trying to open them, only to find them closing again.

"You're welcome, John. You know I'd do anything for you." She said.

"And for Mary." She added.

She was having a hard time focusing on John's face. It kept doubling. She had to shake her head once in awhile to bring everything back into focus.

They sat there nodding for a moment when Molly spoke.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"Can you promise me something."

"Of course, Molly."

"Talk to Mary. Just promise me you'll talk to her. That's all." She yawned loudly.

John looked at Molly sleepily but he nodded his head in agreement.

"Good. That's good."

"You know what, Molly?"

"What?"

"It would have been so much easier if I had fallen for someone like you."

He reached over and took her hand again.

"That would never have worked, John." She replied gently.

He smiled at her sweetly. "Why not?"

"Because we both have a type." She pulled her hand away and turned to put the jar of gherkins back on the table. When she turned back she saw that John's eyes had closed and his mouth hung open just a little. He was snoring quietly. She smiled at him because he looked like a little boy who had tried to stay up past his bedtime.

She struggled to her feet and it was only then that she realized just how intoxicated she was. She was almost knocked right back down again. She tried once more and managed to get up onto her wobbly legs.

Pulling the afghan off the back of the sofa and spreading it over John, Molly placed a motherly kiss on his forehead and smoothed his hair.

"Good night, John." She whispered.

"G'night Mary. Love ya." She heard him mumble.

She giggled and her heart felt light. Surely John would find his way back to the love of his life.

She staggered off down the hallway towards her bedroom. The floor seemed to be tilted on some terribly cruel angle and she had to cling to the wall to keep to her feet. Tripping on her shoes inside her bedroom door, she went down to one knee but she grabbed her chest of drawers and pulled herself upright once more. Four more steps brought her to the edge of her bed and falling face down on it, she did not even bother with her covers.

The room spun in sickening circles that seemed to increase in speed and she had to squeeze her eyes shut to block out the sight. Even with her eyes closed she still felt like she was on a ship on the ocean as it was tossed violently on the waves.

Fortunately, Molly fell into unconciousness at this point and everything was mercifully black for some time after.

**I really enjoyed writing this chapter but maybe I should have included a Big Cheese Warning at the top? (I am comprised of about 95% cheese – sorry about that too!)**

**The story doesn't end quite yet! There is still the aftermath! There will be some hurt! Hangover chapter next time! Oh No!**


	8. Water and Paracetamol

_**Thanks for all of the lovely reviews! I mean to respond to every single one. I appreciate them more than I can possibly express!**_

_**What can I say? I don't own it! I just don't! **_

_**Hope you can overlook my horrible spelling/grammar/punctuation and other mistakes and inaccuracies. Sorry about them!**_

_**The song in this chapter is El Canonero by Benny More. It's on Youtube. I hope you will give it a listen. So here we are – First we go back to the morning of John and Molly's alcoholiday!**_

**Water and Paracetamol**

_**The Morning Before . . .**_

Earlier that day, Sherlock and Molly had hovered over the putrefying corpse of Mr. Robert Graham. So engrossed were they in the details revealed in the autopsy that the two no longer registered the odour.

Strictly speaking Sherlock's presence at the autopsy was against the hospital's policy; however, Scotland Yard had much to do with the bending of these rules. And being the brother of the British Government probably didn't hurt either. But Molly had firmly insisted that Sherlock should at least wear a surgical gown and he had aquiesced to her demands.

Demands in this instance meaning squeaky pleas and incessant whining that she could get in trouble if he refused to do so.

Aquiescence on this occasion meaning persistent eye rolls, annoyed glares and a quite a lot of huffiness.

After the initial bit of trouble, Sherlock had doffed the Belstaff and donned the proper sterile gown, but he stubbornly refused to wear a surgical cap to which Molly muttered something about it being on his head if any of his hair was found on the victim. This resulted in Molly giggling at her own unintentional pun.

Sherlock responded by almost rolling his eyes right _into_ his hairline.

Now they poured over the decayed flesh as Molly went to work on the corpse. She was a bit of a sleuth by her own right and the body on her table held the puzzle pieces. It was her job to put the pieces together for the picture to be complete.

"This is really quite an incredible stab wound!" She exclaimed.

She had peeled back the layers of flesh and muscle in the requisite Y incision, and using rib cutters, she had severed the ribs on either side of the chest so she could pull the entire frontal ribcage as one chest plate to reveal the organs beneath. There they lay, like soft spoiled fruit mouldering away in the chest and abdominal cavity.

"Look at the precision of the work! No hesitation marks and hardly any scoring on the bone! The knife must have just slide between the ribs like butter! Who ever did this was either extremely lucky or extremely skilled!" Molly was no fan of murder, but it was hard not to admire such finesse with a blade!

Sherlock hummed his agreement in response to her enthusiasm. In this regard, he and Molly were quite alike!

"It's too good to be luck, Molly. Even a strong firm thrust dealt by a steady hand is betrayed by the emotions of the wielder of the blade. A non premeditated murder would reveal a dragging of the blade here," Sherlock pointed to a place at the section of ribcage in Molly's hands. "And here." Pointing at the next rib below the blades point of entry.

"Based on past experiences I can conclude that the weapon used was a boning knife."

"Much experience in boning, then?" Molly jokingly asked. Though she had meant it to be an innocent fishing joke, the accidental innuendo struck her a second after the words left her mouth and her snort of laughter turned into a sudden sucking intake of breath.

_Oh My God! __It sounded like . . . Oh Molly, you idiot!_And she thought she was past making a fool of herself in matters concerning Sherlock Holmes.

He just gave her a withering sidelong glance but made no comment and continued as if uninterrupted.

"But even in cases of premeditated murder, there are usually underlying emotions that the wound reveals. Anger. Grief. Fear. They are exposed by reading the wound. It can be observed in the manner sentiment will influence the blades angle and applied pressure."

"So how much pressure do _I_ need to apply to John?" Molly smiled awkwardly. Inside she was cringing and reprimanding herself for her continued failed attempts at humour.

Maybe she was trying too hard to get their relationship back to the place it was before his relapse. It was so easy to fall back into old nervous habits and she was terribly afraid she was mucking it up. She should know better than to try and win Sherlock's friendship with humour. It just wouldn't work. It was another thing that was not his area.

"What ever are you talking about, Molly?" His tone revealing more than a hint of annoyance.

"Sorry. I-I mean how hard should I push John to give Mary another chance? Tonight. You know, the plan?" She smiled nervously behind the splatter guard, but it seemed closer to a grimace than a grin.

Sherlock had laid out a rather vague plan which entailed Molly convincing John to spend a social evening with her. He recommended plying him with drinks because Sherlock had said John was much more 'malleable in a state of inebriation.' He had actually said it in those exact words!

"Use every resource available, Molly. It is of the utmost importance. He simply must accept the invitation to Christmas with my parents. You need only to convince John that he should talk to Mary. Even the remotest acceptance to the suggestion of reconciliation and my plan will be successful."

She could understand the plan for the most part; raise John's spirits, appeal to his sentiment and help steer him back into the arms of his estranged wife. It made some sense, though she had doubts about her ability to influence John Watson. Additionally, she was still quite in the dark about why John and Mary needed to go to Christmas dinner with Sherlock's family. How would that fix their marriage?

She was just about to tell Sherlock that she felt like the least likely person to have any influence over John Watson, when her eyes fell on the victim's heart.

"Doesn't look like he was trying to inflict much pain though, does it?" Molly asked putting the frontal ribcage down on a tray beside her table.

Sherlock gave her a funny look at her abrupt changes in topic.

"I meant the killer." She explained gesturing at the corpse. "I was just thinking that Mr Graham didn't suffer much. Look at the aorta. He would have bled out in seconds!"

Sherlock leaned in to get a closer look.

"The aorta is completely severed!" His tone sounded positively gleeful. "How efficient! It's a work of art!"

It would be pretty easy to misconstrue Sherlock's glee in the murderer's technique, but Molly knew where it came from because she felt it too. It took a great understanding of human physiology, of psychology and yes, a bit of artistry to render a living person into what lay before them now. She fully experienced empathy for the people that made their way to her table and she felt a deep reverence for human life, but that didn't stop Molly from acknowledging the skill it took to produce such a tidy death!

She smiled and her eyes twinkled as they met with Sherlock's across the corpse situated between them. Molly was pleasantly surprised to find him returning the smile. In fact she was dazzled by the way it transformed his face with deep dimples and creases that made it seem like smiling was the most natural thing in the world for him. As if he did it all the time and the proof of it was etched deeply in his skin.

It took her breath away and she had to force herself to tear her eyes from his so she could continue.

"Yes. But look here. There are a couple of other points of interest." She brought her gloved hand to the victim's cheek.

"See here. There is a single laceration across the right zygomatic area. It's a superficial, shallow wound."

Sherlock walked around the table and stood next to Molly to get a closer look at the cut.

"It's a very clean cut. An extremely sharp blade was used."

"Surgically sharp." She agreed. "A scalpel?"

Sherlock nodded and brought out his magnifier, leaning in to get a closer look. "Hm. Not a wound acquired in a struggle."

Molly thought it was interesting that although she no longer registered the smell of decay, she could still somehow notice the clean smell of the shampoo Sherlock used. This was no time to get lost in her childish infatuation. But oh how hard it was not to think about lathering up those curls! She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Then she cleared her throat and continued.

"The only wound that indicates resistance is this one here." She pointed at the throat. "It's a bit hard to see with the mottling of decomposition, but look at the lividity here. There's no deeper tissue damage. Bones and tendons are intact. It's just bruising."

"The victim was rendered unconcious by applying pressure to the carotid artery with a belt or a strap." Sherlock mimed the act of strangulation on an invisible person. "The victim is then immobilized for the cut on the cheek and then the killing thrust. Utterly calculated. Even detached, one might say. Fascinating!"

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"Will it waste my time?" He asked absently as he continued to look over the body with his eye piece.

Molly shrugged. "Why your parents? Why do you think having John and Mary spend Christmas with your Mum and Dad might possibly save their marriage?"

He said nothing for some time until Molly was sure he was not going to dignify the question with a response. But she heard him mumble something.

"What? I missed that?"

"Sentimental fools. John and Mary. Mummy and Daddy. They have _**so**_ much in common." He sighed dramatically.

She still didn't understand and thought she should drop it, but to her surprise Sherlock continued.

"My parents are boring."

Apparently even his parents were not above his cutting observations!

"They are utterly ordinary but with one exception; they defy marital statistics! It is beyond my comprehension, but they have always portrayed the ideal of the perfect marriage."

"That's sweet. But Sherlock, no relationship is perfect."

"It isn't sentiment, Molly. It's merely an observation - with one undeniable element - _t__he__ir_ marriage is perfect. I don't mean they have never had disagreements. That would be unrealistic. What I am trying to tell you, Molly Hooper, comes down to this one unique quality; they have never let an argument mar their _feelings_." Sherlock's lip curled in mild distaste at the word.

"They remain dedicated to one another in a way I have rarely witnessed."

Molly wondered how he could have such a tarnished view of sentiment when he had grown up with such a lovely example. Could Mycroft and Sherlock truly be so stupid? She herself was the product of a broken marriage, brought up by her Father. Her Mother abandoned them when she was a little girl. Then take into consideration all the times she had had her heart broken. And finally to top it off, she considered the unreciprocated love she harboured for this man right here beside her. And yet she remained a romantic fool. Maybe she was the stupid one!

But she thought Sherlock was very fortunate to have parents who loved one another and she told him so.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock grunted as he examined the bruising on the victim's neck.

"The point I am trying to make, is this; I believe John and Mary share much in common with them. Perhaps if they are given a chance to observe their example, they may be inspired to follow suit."

They stood silently before the body, each deep in thought.

"You know who did this don't you?" Molly gestured to the corpse before them.

Sherlock smiled once more but made no reply.

Just then the morgue's door opened slowly and they both looked up expecting John to poke his head in, but instead of the sandy haired head apprehensively peering around the door frame, it was the graying head of DI Lestrade.

"Ah Gordon." Sherlock greeted the Detective Inspector.

"It's Greg!" Lestrade snapped.

He inched through the entrance but kept well back from the table. Sidling up to the back wall, he firmly clasped a pocket handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Molly could smell the cheap cologne he had no doubt sprinkled on the fabric before entering the room.

"Bloody hell that stinks, donnit?" He squinted his eyes as though doing so might somehow help block out the stench.

Sherlock and Molly took turns describing the trauma to the body and the determined cause of death.

"Huh!" Lestrade grunted. "Seems our holiday killer had himself another holiday, eh Sherlock?"

"Holiday Killer? Like as in Christmas?" Molly asked. The Christmas season _was_ practically upon them. It made a twisted sort of sense that it might have it's very own serial killer.

"Nah, our killer doesn't restrict himself that way. S'more like some guy from outta country likes to take his holiday here in London. Celebrates each visit with a bit of murder. And here's the clincher." He held out a file but Lestrade refused to take a step closer to the corpse in order to hand it over to Sherlock.

Sherlock, in turn refused to be the one to retrieve the file on principle. (The principle being that he was the one that needed to be catered too. NOT the other way around – and _Gabe_ had best not forget that!)

Molly stared from Greg to Sherlock for a minute, then she rolled her eyes, pulling off her latex glove she grabbed the file from Lestrade and handed to the world's only ridiculously spoiled consulting detective.

Sherlock flipped through the file quickly. Then he turned back to the corpse to address it.

"Mr Graham, it appears that you have been very naughty indeed."

"What do you mean?" Molly looked confused.

He explained to Molly as he paced the length of the room. It seemed that Mr Graham had a record of physical assault on female sex trade workers and was additionally suspected in several cases of sexual assault. Recently he had been brought in on charges of involvement with the disappearance of another sex trade worker but he had come up with an iron clad alibi and the charges were subsequently dropped. The suspicion remained however, and Scotland Yard was still in the process of collecting evidence on the rape charges. Until then there was only speculations and unsubstantiated gossip amongst the cities homeless.

Molly turned and glared at the corpse in disgust. Rot and decay were nothing. Bodies in death were blameless in the way the presented themselves to her on her table. But this mans acts in life repelled her.

"Is the killer a vigilante then?"

"It would seem that way. Eight bodies over a period of five years. Each victim linked in some way to violent crimes. Each one with the single stab wound and the cut to the cheek. Five of the victims show bruising around the neck. Toxicology screening revealed that the other three were administered a drug called M99."

"Etrophine Hydrochloride? That's a veterinary drug, isn't it?" Molly asked.

Sherlock grunted in agreement, his focus back on the corpse.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"There's something I don't understand . . . Would a vigilante give someone that he really thought to be deserving a death sentence . . . well . . . why would he give them such an easy death?"

"Why indeed, Molly. Why indeed."

Molly made a notation to check for the presence of M99 on her toxicology report though with the bruising on the neck, she didn't think she would find any present. It didn't fit the profile. But if anything, Dr Molly Hooper was extremely thorough in her work.

Donning a fresh glove, she turned to remove the stomach to examine it's contents. This was Lestrade's cue to make a hasty retreat. He promised to speak with Sherlock in depth later regarding the case. Clutching his pocket handkerchief to his face, he turned tail and fled the room.

"Sherlock?" Molly ventured to ask one last question.

"Yes, Molly."

"What if I can't do it? What if John won't listen to me?"

Molly looked up from the opened stomach and gave Sherlock a worried look. She feared that she might irritate him with her anxieties, but to her surprise he only approached her, invading her personal space like he did that night before he fell.

"I have every confidence in you, Molly Hooper." Lifting the visor of the splash guard and pushing it back he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek.

_**The Morning After . . .**_

Hours after she had passed out in her bed, Molly dreamed that she was on a cruise ship bound for Cuba. At least she thought it was Cuba. She had come to this conclusion, clinging to the deck as the ship was tossed about by a violent storm. Dream Molly felt seasick and her head ached tremendously.

A Mambo band seemed to play exclusively for her own entertainment and/or torture. All of the horns and bongos blasted directly into her ears and the voices shouted in joyful song:

_Asi asi_

_Todas las mujeres de la fiesta_

_Tienen que bailer conmigo_

_Todas las mujeres de la fiesta_

_Tienen que bailer conmigo_

_La verdad soy buen amigo_

_Y no me meto con nadie_

_Pero aseguro se acaba el baile_

_Si todas no bailan conmigo_

She could understand the presence of such a band on a holiday cruise bound for Cuba. What she couldn't understand was why they insisted on following her around the deck and playing so close to her aching head. Didn't they have an engagement in the Red Lounge on Deck E or somewhere like that?

As dream Molly lay there on the pitching and rolling deck, Dream Sherlock strode over to her and began blathering on about Christmas dinner at his parents. She noticed that he was dressed like a pirate and there was a bird perched on his shoulder. It was not a parrot however, it was completely yellow. The bird regarded her prone position on the ship's deck and then it spoke.

"Aw, you need something in your tummy, putty tat – a nice, fat, juicy piece of salt pork!"

Molly stomach churned miserably.

"No. No pork, please." She moaned.

"Molly! Are you listening to me?" Dream Sherlock asked huffing with impatience.

Dream Molly briefly wondered if Dream Sherlock had arrived with the band.

"Did the plan work? Did you convince John?"

"Oh. I guess you must be the captain, then?" She briefly wondered why the captain of a cruise ship would dress as a pirate.

"Molly."

Her eye cracked open . Slowly her surroundings came into focus and she could see her room. It had only been a dream. She was safe in her room. But oh, her head and stomach felt truly horrible! That much of her dream had been accurate. It's weird how reality can make it's way into dreams. Funny things, they are.

"Molly!" Sherlock scolded again. She turned her head which produced a sharp pain and a nauseating dizziness. It also put Sherlock Holmes right into her visual field.

He was here. In her room. Standing there as if he had every right to be there early on a Saturday morning. Well, at least he wasn't dressed up like a pirate.

Molly had spent the entire night face down on top of her covers without moving and now she tried hastily to get up onto her hands and knees, an action she regretted immediately. Her glasses hung askew on her face and the enormity of her hang over drove her back down to her mattress.

"Oh. My. God." Molly croaked. "I've been killed."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're quite alive, I assure you."

"No. No. You're wrong, Sherlock and I will tell you why. Number one, I feel like death itself. Number two, you are in my bedroom. It is an ungodly hour and you are in my room. Therefore this is a crime scene and I am the unfortunate corpse. I am dead." With that Molly made a most piteous moan.

"It's hardly an ungodly hour. It's past nine. I have waited hours!" He whined. "I've been more than patient, Molly."

He stood towering over her. She tried to focus on him but she simply couldn't. When he began to pace the small dimensions of her room she squeezed her eyes shut again unable to tolerate his movement without triggering her growing sensation of illness.

"Go away, Sherlock." She moaned. "Please."

"I don't need a full account of the evening. I just want to know if we were successful. A simple yes or no will do."

But Molly couldn't even think straight. What happened last night? She would remember given time, but the only thing she was aware of right now, was the growing probability that she was going to be violently ill.

"Why don't you ask John." She whispered between clenched teeth trying to stave off the inevitable.

That is when Sherlock decided to plop down heavily beside her on her bed. The mattress jostled Molly in a way she found most distressing.

"I did ask."

"What did he say?"

Sherlock shifted his position causing her bed to dip sickeningly. She felt her stomach lurch.

"Well he refuses to answer. He just told me to fuc-"

"Off" Molly ordered Sherlock.

"Wha-?" He began

"MOVE IT, HOLMES!" Molly yelled in a most un-Molly-like tone and shoving the consulting detective ruthlessly from her bed. He landed on his arse on the floor where he sat for a moment in utter shock at the unexpected rude treatment.

She bolted to the loo very nearly faster than the human eye could register and the door slammed behind her.

The next half hour was probably some of the most miserably moments Molly had ever experienced. It was not a pretty sight! All the horrible, terrible things that she had consumed the previous evening were purged from her body. And the predominant colour purple seemed to invasively tinge everything. Oh those vile purple nightmares! How nasty blue curacao is when experienced in reverse! And gherkins._ Really Molly, gherkins?_ What had she been thinking?

It was some time later that Molly slunk back to her bedroom feeling like some horribly disgusting thing Toby had dragged in. She didn't wonder where Sherlock had gone of to. She didn't wonder how John was doing this morning. Her bed called to her and that was the only thought in her mind just then.

She crawled back into it now, but before she could pull her covers up she noticed a glass of water and some paracetamol on her bedside table. A testament to how truly horrible she felt, she didn't even question who had put them there. The hangover fairy had obviously paid a visit. She took the paracetamol with a sip of water. Then she cocooned herself in her blankets and slept for a very long time.

_**A/N The weapon used – forgive me! I'm almost positive that a boning knife is too flimsy to use as a stabbing tool. I used it shamelessly for the lame pun. Sorry? The murder story is only used as a setting for Sherlock to make his request and so the killer will not be revealed in this story, but can you guess who it is? He is a crossover from another show. I've left tons of clues, hee-hee!**_


	9. Coffee and Bacon

_Woo-hoo, It's the last chapter! Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who followed, favorited and reviewed. So, so lovely! Thanks to BlueSummerSky13, Emma Lynch, Siridere, Belen09, Whoovian, kArA123, piewacket, Hcolt, Scorpio221B, akuhei86, SHERlocked221C, almightyswot, 16magnolias, Khione'sKid.306, emedealer, lavanyalabelle, Icecat62, incomprensibile, Angels-heart1 and all of the guests that made reviews (hope I didn't miss anybody!)_

_This chapter may need a new rating? I'll keep a T for now. I don't **think **it is detailed enough to warrant an M rating, but if I am wrong could someone message me and I'll change it. I originally didn't plan to go there but . . . _

_The scene in question can be accompanied by the song Stay Up Late by The Talking Heads. Please go listen to it. I'm so bad. I took a cute song about parenting and I turned it naughty. In my defense, I really thought it was innuendo, but apparently not . . . _

_Anyhoot, here it is. I don't own it, I just hope you enjoy it!_

**Coffee and Bacon **

An hour later Molly awoke long enough to notice that her headache had eased considerably and her stomach felt more or less, stable. She picked up the glass of water from her bedside table and drank the rest of it down. She briefly wondered if John had left it there. If he did, then he must be faring better than she was this morning. She still felt weak and exhausted, so she sank back into her pillows, sighed contentedly and slept on.

Late in the afternoon, her phone vibrating on the bedside table awoke her from her long and healing sleep. She sat up and stretched, wincing at the various aches and pains in her body that were not part of the hangover. In particular her poor bruised bottom pained her as she perched on the edge of her bed.

Rubbing the injury, she made the customary vow to never drink again though she would likely keep that promise for not more than a couple of weeks before she started indulging in an occasional solitary glass of wine. And no doubt some cousins wedding or a friends promotion would call for a partaking of drinks, sometime far enough in the future that the pain of this day had faded from memory and only the good times were recalled in any clarity. Oh memories - how selective they can be!

But for now her intentions were to steer clear of anything containing alcohol.

Molly picked up her phone and noticed several missed texts, all from John Watson.

_Good Morning, Molly. JW_

_How are you feeling? JW_

_Molly? JW_

That was the one that had awoken her. She replied.

_Feeling better now. Thanks. And you? MH_

_Still a bit iffy. Wanted to make sure you survived. JW_

_Slept the whole day. Much better now. Thanks for the water btw. MH_

_Water? JW_

That was a bit odd. She distinctly remembered that someone had left water and paracetamol on her bedside table. She looked at it now. It was full. Well she definitely remembered emptying it earlier. That only left Sherlock. Recalling the way he had awoken her that morning, it was impossible to imagine him being so conscientious as to take care of her while she suffered through a hangover when he seemed so oblivious of her discomfort earlier. But the evidence was there!

_Never mind. I need to eat something soon. How's your stomach today? MH_

_Not bad. Mrs Hudson made hangover breakfast. Fought for 2 hours to avoid less appealing 2nd breakfast. Won that battle. Much better now. JW_

Molly chuckled over that.

_Sherlock's leaving you alone?_

She wondered what John must have had to put up with that morning.

_Actually he left a long time ago. After making the strangest request. JW_

_Request? MH_

_He asked if Mary and I would spend Christmas with his family. JW_

_NO! MH_

_Yes! JW_

_And? MH_

_I said he would have to ask Mary. He said she had already agreed as long as I would go. JW_

_So are you? MH_

_Actually, yes. Said last night I was going to talk to Mary. And how can I turn down that invitation? Morbid curiousity. JW_

_Glad you're going to talk. MH_

_Planning out what to say. Don't worry. It will be good. JW_

_Lovely! MH_

_And Molly? JW_

_Yes, John? MH_

_Thanks for last night, friend. JW_

_Anytime, friend. MH_

She sat for a moment just looking down at her phone and smiling to herself. Somehow the ridiculous plan had worked. The rest was up to Sherlock. Just yesterday she had thought his plan was full of holes but now it seemed as if anything were possible!

She found fresh clothes and headed for the shower where she brushed her teeth for 5 minutes straight to banish the vile taste. With that task done she hopped in the shower and spent an absolutely sinful amount of time luxuriating in the water, allowing it to soothe away the bumps and bruises she had acquired the previous night. Coming out of the loo, she felt a whole lot more human and a whole lot more Molly.

Her only plan this evening was to stay in the night shirt and dressing gown she had donned, eat some food and bury herself in the trashiest romance novel on her shelf. Her only question was whether or not she had anything worthwhile left in the refrigerator. Well, she would eat one of those old tins of beans in the cupboard rather than leave her flat this night!

The sitting room was still scattered with the debris of the previous night's indulgences. Littering the table were the shot glasses, empty crisp bag, and the almost empty bottle of vodka minus the cap. First thing Molly intended to do was to get this mess straightened away, so grabbing the bottle and shot glasses she headed for her kitchen. She almost dropped everything when she saw Sherlock Holmes standing there.

Her first thought was to scold him soundly for startling her but he held something out to her as an offering.

"I thought you might need caffeine and some greasy food." He held out a cup and a paper take away bag. "Caffeine increases the effectiveness of the paracetamol. Eases the headache. Greasy food is traditional for soothing digestive discomfort brought on by imbibing in alcohol. A bit of a myth, but I thought you might find it comforting in your current condition.

Too shocked by his thoughtful gesture to respond, however disguised in logic, Molly took the offerings to her table and discovered that it wasn't just a coffee, but a caramel latte – her favourite! Then she opened the bag and peered inside.

"A bacon sandwich? You brought me a bacon sandwich? Are you some kind of angel?" Molly looked him over but seeing no halo or wings she proceeded to take an enormous bite of the bacony goodness. Closing her eyes she savoured the greasy fare.

Sherlock chuckled. "I assure you, Molly, I am no angel. Far from it."

Molly didn't even feel a bit self conscious as she polished off the food at an alarming rate while Sherlock looked on, an amused smile quirking his lips. She got up to throw away the wrapper and then stood by the counter. Sighing happily as she sipped the hot drink.

"So, can I ask to what do I owe this sudden concern for my welfare." She smacked her lips, enjoying the sweet tasting coffee.

Sherlock smiled excitedly and practically skipped over to where she stood. "Because, Molly Hooper, our mission has been successful and I just wanted to say . . . Thank you."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The first kiss was an accident. Well, he did intend to kiss her. Molly knew that. But it was like the few other occasions it had happened. A chaste kiss on the cheek as an apology or a congratulations. This time it was a thank-you.

The gratitude was for helping Sherlock save the Watson's marriage. It was kind of funny, Molly thought because Sherlock had so often been the one that drove John's girlfriends away with his cutting remarks and embarrassing observations. But he really seemed quite fond of Mary and was obsessive in his attempts to fix their relationship. Mary was the easy one, she wanted John back. Desperately. John however, was not as keen to reunite with his estranged wife.

Sherlock had spent many evenings trying to convince John to give her another chance but really, trying to appeal to someones emotional state was not his area. Romantic relationships were also not his area. But Molly Hooper? She might be his area. He knew he could play her. But in this case there was no need. Molly wanted to help every bit as much as Sherlock. And so she had gone along with Sherlock's plan without question.

His plan? Molly Hooper got John good and drunk and convinced him to accept Sherlock's invitation to his parents country home for Christmas. How would this help? It was still a bit unclear to Molly. But Sherlock truly believed that if John and Mary could witness the marriage of Mr and Mrs Holmes, they would be inspired to work on their own relationship. She wasn't so sure of the soundness of this plan, but Molly had to admit it was pretty sweet.

And now here they were standing in her kitchen in the late afternoon after a night of binge drinking with John who was at home recuperating but willing to talk to Mary. And Sherlock was in unusually high spirits over the way his plan was coming together.

Molly took a sip of the caramel latte that Sherlock had brought her, which tasted divine now that she was recovering from her rather rough start earlier that morning. Her hair was wet, fresh from the shower and her dressing gown was closed securely with it's tie at her waist.

And so Sherlock Holmes actually said thank you, a very rare thing indeed! That was when he leaned in for the kiss. Molly saw it coming and was in the process of turning her right cheek to accept the gesture. But Sherlock must have decided to go left. They met in the middle, which just so happened to be the location of her lips.

There was a moment when they both froze, lips pressed against each others, eyes widened in shock. An image of the old movie, the one with the dogs eating spaghetti popped into Molly's head and she pulled away quickly. At this point she knew there was still a golden moment where they could pretend that what had happened, had_n't_ just happen and carry on with this pleasant visit. But . . .

That was when Molly did the most unexpected thing in her life. It was something completely spontaneous and unplanned. With the hand unoccupied by coffee she grabbed Sherlock by the scarf and hauled him back in for another kiss. It was still very innocent, but softer and with more intent behind it. This time it was Sherlock who pulled away.

Molly plucked up her courage and stood tall and straight, holding her head high and said, "That's right Sherlock Holmes. I kissed you! What are you going to do about it?" She only meant it as a show of false bravado, but it came out sounding like a challenge.

Her heart quailed when she looked up at him. He appeared to be enraged, nostrils flaring, breath quickened in what she thought must be anger. And Molly couldn't help thinking, _Oh shit, Molly dear you've made a mess of things now, haven't you. _But it wasn't fair! _He_ kissed _her_ first!

He was spluttering, trying to say something, but she had done the impossible. She had rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless!

"Oh Shit!" She mumbled.

And then . . .

Sherlock lunged forward and _he _grabbed_ her_ by the lapels of her robe and pulled her in to him. He pressed his lips to hers and they were frozen in their original state. But only for a moment, for then something amazing happened to the repressed, controlled, disciplined consulting detective and it was like the floodgates were torn open by the incoming tsunami of lust. He opened his mouth and half gasped, half moaned and Molly took the opportunity to swipe her tongue into his mouth.

After that it was a gluttony of desperately hungry kisses. Molly's latte flew out of her hand and the lid popped off as it struck the floor spilling the sweet smelling coffee all over her white linoleum. And she could not have cared less because now she was sinking her fingers into his luxurious curls and they felt every bit as soft as she had imagined. Her heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest, but she could feel Sherlock's hammering every bit as hard as her own!

He swept his hands down her arms and was soon struggling to get the knot out of her dressing gown's tie, but he didn't want to lose a moment of passionate kisses to put any attention into the puzzling knot. So Molly batted his hands away and loosened the tie for him. He slipped the clothing from her shoulders.

Now he was wearing entirely too much clothing for Molly's liking and she pulled off his scarf while he shrugged of the coat. They landed in an unceremonious heap, joining her dressing gown on the floor. It was frustrating just how many layers this man had on and she huffed in her impatience.

The oversized pink shirt with the kitten on the front wearing sunglasses and a bow tie that she wore as a nighty was not very sexy, but Sherlock made no comment and worked desperately to pull it off. It snagged her hair momentarily before parting company, but she paid little heed to the minor disruption.

And now she was down to her bra and knickers. They were blue with cheerfully juvenile yellow stars scattered across them. And well, it's not like she had planned to strip down to her skivvies with her long time infatuation, so she could hardly be held accountable for her choices!

On his part, he seemed quite amenable with what she was wearing and only moaned again as he pressed his body tightly to hers and let her know with his hardness just how okay he was with her selection of undergarments.

As they kissed frantically Molly was trying to steer them to her bedroom. In the process they knocked over a potted plant on the kitchen counter, overturned a side table in her sitting room which still held last nights empty beer bottles (they hit the floor, one of them smashing to bits) and the tail of a certain cat may have been trod upon. They cat let out a yowl and a hiss and darted under the sofa where he looked out with a hateful glare.

Having conquered the obstacles that led to her room Molly pulled Sherlock to her bed. In her passion she did not calculate the distance and was surprised when she bumped into it and she toppled down on her back, unbalancing Sherlock and taking him down with her.

"Ompf!" She gasped as they came dangerously close to knocking heads, but she recovered miraculously and attached her lips once more to his. He also seemed unfazed by the tumble perhaps too preoccupied with the task of groping her breasts through her bra.

And now came to Sherlock Holmes the bane of all men - he worked frantically to free her breasts from her bra with it's frustratingly evil hooks! All attempts were thwarted by the accursed thing. They were, no doubt devised by some bitter person whose soul purpose was to deny access to the tempting flesh beneath.

"Molly!" Sherlock sounding highly agitated whilst pulling and struggling with the most annoying piece of clothing. "I need a knife or scissors!"

She quickly reached one hand behind her and did that little bit of magic that women do, releasing the hooks with one hand. Sherlock sighed in relief and pulled bra off and tossed it away. It landed on top of her lamp shade where it stayed for the remainder of that night.

He had an easier time with her knickers and made short work of removing those, flinging them over his shoulder. They landed on Toby who had chosen that moment to leave his hiding place. This changed his mind and he made a hasty retreat. He shook the article of clothing off and left with his nose in the air wishing that the other male human was here instead. He was at least tolerable!

With the last bit of her clothing out of the way Sherlock paid tribute to her breasts with great enthusiasm and Molly responded by writhing and squirming beneath him. His hands were slowly working their way across her abdomen to her hip and further downwards.

"Off!" Molly ordered and Sherlock backed his head away from hers long enough to look at her in utter disbelief.

"I mean your clothes." Molly amended. "Get them off!"

His face lit up with a grin and he pulled off his shirt popping the buttons in his impatience. One of them struck the center of Molly's forehead and bounced away, rolling across her bedroom floor. She paid little heed other than a brief thought of thankfulness that it had missed her eye.

His trousers and pants were a bit of a problem because he didn't want to lose contact with Molly long enough to get them down. She helped him struggle out of them and only lightly kneed him in the knackers in the process. Luckily there was no damage sustained and he heroically carried on!

And now with no clothing between them Sherlock begun to utter vaguely dirty and yet somehow simultaneously genial things (_And now Molly, I am going to shag your sweet bottom. I've wanted your sweet bottom for such a long time.)_ Molly felt an urge to laugh, but if she did he might stop what he was doing and she most certainly did not want that! He was sliding against her in a most delicious fashion that had her gasping! She lavished his long neck with wet licks and kisses to encourage him.

But Molly was full of surprises that day and caught Sherlock completely off guard when this tiny woman practically tossed him on his back and climbed on top of him. Taking him in hand, she guided him into a most agreeable destination, immensely enjoyed by all parties involved.

Words were lost and only sighs and moans were uttered by either for quite some time.

0000oooo0000oooo0000oooo

A short while later they lay side by side, somewhat subdued and stunned by what had just happened. Molly had pulled her sheet up to her chin and Sherlock fought to find enough of it to pull up to his waist. They lay there still breathing rather raggedly in recovery from their recent excursions.

Finally Molly got up enough nerve to say something. "W-what was _that_?"

She was struggling to figure out how exactly they had ended up naked in her bedroom after what was a completely friendly but decidedly non-flirtatious conversation in her kitchen. It made her head spin a little to think how quickly things had escalated. The man had brought her a bacon sandwich, for God's sake, not a bouquet of flowers and a bloody box of chocolates!

She wasn't surprised by her own responsiveness. She had been primed for this by years of loving and lusting after this man. But Sherlock's eagerness and the intensity of his lovemaking had shocked her. She never, NEVER would have expected such a response from him. Clearly, the man had some . . . pent up energy!

"Well," he cleared his throat as he lay there staring at the ceiling. "I would expect that in part, it was your long term fascination with me . . ." He explained somewhat lamely.

"Wait! Hang on there, Mr. Holmes! Mr. _I've-wanted-your-sweet-bottom-for-such-a-long-time." _She turned on her side to look at him with a smirk and an arched brow. "I was not the only one involved in what just happened here. I seem to remember a certain some one ready to cut my bra because it wasn't coming off quickly enough!"

"You asked what happened. I was merely offering some possible explanations." He replied peevishly but it was clear he was holding back a smirk of his own.

Molly moved a bit closer. "All I am trying to say is that it was rather . . . unexpected."

Sherlock in turn moved a bit closer and draped his arm over her hip. "And all_ I_ am trying to say is that it was rather . . . _fascinating!"_

They stared at each other in repressed mirth for a moment until Sherlock's deep rumbling laugh broke the tension. Molly giggled in response.

Rolling over to the edge of Molly's bed he began to get up.

"Where are you going?" Molly asked. She wondered if that was it, a quick roll in the hay and he's off without so much as farewell.

But Sherlock just glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "Back in a moment."

He sauntered off leaving her with a lovely view of that cute pale bottom. She flopped back on her bed and just lay there grinning like an idiot.

Soon he was back with a saucer and a packet of cigarettes.

Molly scowled a bit at that. "Ew, no! You're not going to smoke in my bedroom!"

"I've just ended over six years of celibacy, Molly. Could you not make an exception this one time?" He looked at her with a dramatic pout.

She was hesitant but Molly nodded in acquiescence. He lit the cigarette inhaling deeply, taping the ashes onto the saucer.

"Six years?" Molly moved closer as Sherlock settled back on the bed, head propped up by pillows against the headboard. He rather considerately blew the smoke away from her.

"Yes. Well, six years, 5 months, 2 weeks and 3 days, to be precise."

"That long, eh?"

"Yes, that long, Molly Hooper. I do believe that you are going to prove to be quite distracting." He glanced over at her mischievously.

"Oh, well then . . . sorry. We don't have to continue this, whatever this is, you know." Molly teased.

"Don't be. Sorry, that is." He crushed out the cigarette and rolled on top of her. "It's quite. All. Right." He punctuated each word with a quick kiss and then deepened it until they were both quite out a breath.

Once again Molly pushed Sherlock on to his back. He pulled his face away for a moment.

"I'm sensing a pattern."

"Problem with that?"

"Not at all!" He replied enthusiastically.

As she lay across his chest Molly traced the scar tissue of the bullet wound with her fingers and then her lips. Sherlock sighed and she looked up at him. She wanted to tell him something and not long ago she would have been terrified to speak so directly. But now the fear of his reaction seemed a lot less scary. Somehow getting naked and riding him to a delightfully sweaty conclusion had emboldened her.

"I can't guess the details, but I know Mary is somehow responsible for this." She touched the scar once more.

Sherlock looked almost as shocked as when she had kissed him for the first time not so very long ago, but he did not look angry. What was that look? Why, he was beginning to smile again! She didn't think she had seen him smile so much in all the years she had known him as she had this past hour.

"How did you deduce this?" He asked stroking her back.

Molly sighed. "Well John said Mary had hurt someone other than himself."

Sherlock nodded for her to continue and he moved both of his hands down and rubbed her bottom. It made her squirm a bit, enjoying the feel of his fingers digging into her flesh.

"He used the pronoun _he. _I don't think he meant too. He was pretty upset and drunk by that point."

"That could still imply any number of people, Molly. Why do you think it was me?" Sherlock asked as he moved his hands to her breasts and gave them some attention. He stroked her nipples with his thumbs making it difficult for her to form coherent thoughts.

She gasped at his touch. "W-well, mmmmm, I knew it had to be a close friend to cause him to actually leave Mary. That could only be you, right?"

"Hmm-mmm." Sherlock pulled Molly up so he could kiss her neck. When he spoke next Molly could feel his hot breath on her ear lobe. He whispered. "But how can you conclude that she was responsible for a bullet wound, Molly? That seems a bit of a stretch, doesn't it?"

She shivered at the way his voice rumbled against her skin. "B-but, it had to be something significant." She moaned as his hands found her hips and he pressed himself against her. "And it wasn't an emotional wound. You wouldn't have let her get to you that way."

She could feel Sherlock nod and then his lips found hers. When they broke apart once more, Molly gasped. "John's hurt was emotional. Betrayal. Loss of trust. He said the hurt she caused someone close to him was different."

Molly kissed Sherlock's neck and was rewarded with his gasp of pleasure.

"I realized that if you were the one she hurt, it must have been physical." She kissed her way down his neck and across his collarbone. She could feel his heart rate quicken.

"A significant physical injury. John moved back to Baker street right after you were shot. Somehow, Mary is responsible for this." Molly gently licked the scarred area, teasing another moan form the consulting detective before continuing with her deductions. "She was remorseful and you forgave her. You've even developed a friendship. You already had her convinced to accept your invitation as long as you could get John to agree."

Molly spent some time licking and kissing each of his nipples in turn and he shuddered and moaned in response. _Oh, he likes that. _She tucked away that bit of information to revisit soon. For the moment she had another destination in mind.

"I, uh!" Sherlock gasped as she suddenly ran her tongue down to his navel "I'm duly impressed by your – uh! Deductive reasoning!" He groaned as she bit his hip bone.

"Thanks." Molly replied before licking her way deliciously across his hip.

"Molly w-what are you doing?" He gasped.

"Hmm, I seem to remember a hypothesis you made some time ago regarding the size of my mouth." He looked down to see her give him a positively wicked look as he winced at the memory of his glib comments of long ago.

"O-oh?" Was the only thing he could manage as she tongued his thigh.

"Yes." She continued. "So I think we need to conduct an experiment of sorts, to come to a more . . . definitive conclusion.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped.

"OH!"

_**Final A/N – Oh yeah, I ended it there, haha! So I feel like I just wrote the Three Stooges of love scenes. Let me know what you think. AAAAAh, so nervous! It was my first bit of naughty. Pretty mild though right? Bye-bye! Thanks for reading! Hugs and kisses!**_


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